When that mockingbird don't sing
by NeuroticPeriodical
Summary: Taylor's mother is behind bars. Regal, domineering and a mass murdering psychopath with Dubai, London and Brockton struck off her hit list. Shatterbird always left her mark wherever she went. Taylors survived the fallout of her capture, but a year and a half later now she's stuck with the grim reality of having a mother that could slaughter thousands with a simple lullaby.
1. Aria 1-1

Aria 1.1

Taylor's sweatshirt clung to her belly, soaked through down to her rather thin t-shirt, both articles bound by a large orange stain of drying juice that discolored the dull, sickly green cotton blend making up her outermost layer. The girl's nose was permeated by a slightly sweet smell that seemed to be indistinct from any other kind of sugary, heavily processed drink. A scent that would quickly turn bad if she didn't get her top washed soon.

The universal law that wet clothing must be unbearable to wear unless you were completely submerged was very much in effect. It made Taylor cringe each time she moved and her slight paunch of a stomach brushed up against it, forcing her to awkwardly peel away her besmirched clothes in the hope of easing her discomfort.

Her mind wandered as she tried to avoid thinking about what had happened at lunch today while her foot tapped against the battered concrete at a quick staccato. She checked her watch with a cold look on her face, her disgust filed away behind a facade of apathy. The cold metal accessory drew the eye away from her olive brown skin that just barely echoed her mother's. She was lucky it hadn't been snatched by her tormentors, and grateful enough to take solace in that small mercy and not question it. Too much bad shit happened on the regular to the gangly teenager for her to be unappreciative when the worst case scenario didn't play out. The watch's ornate looking arms turned in their diligent cycle across the stained-glass background, telling her it was nearly three thirty.

If Taylor had any choice in the matter the bus would be here by now, or even better she wouldn't need to be standing here at the stop. That and Her clothes wouldn't be doused in juice, and finally, her mother would be at home, looking over the preparations for one of her exhibits, small as they were. Indeed, if she'd had any influence over the winds of fate then the past year and a half would be just a nightmare, the stain just another figment of her unconscious mind stirring up the worst possible turns life could throw at her.

Sadly, this wasn't the case. Her bullies were real, her clothes were still wet, sticky, and feeling absolutely appalling against her skin, and the bus out of town with the closest stop to Brockton correctional was still late. Still, she couldn't let it get to her, or at least let it show. "Stand strong and present your ideal self", just like her mother had taught her. Taylor could get a new shirt after getting off the bus; she knew for a fact that it stopped near a convenience store that sold souvenirs. Bright, loud looking things meant to draw the unattended children of tourists before they could be reined in. Managers hoping to clear out their inventory via temper tantrum. The teen might've been cutting it close. Her plan risked the possibility of missing visiting hours, but replacing the soiled clothing held priority. Better to be late than to bring up unwanted questions. Who knew how she'd react.

-

Annette stared at the clock on the wall with an intensity that could only be rivaled by the most detail-oriented sculptors. Each tick scraped away at her resolution as the arms waved back at her in that painful cyclic motion. Two piles of books were stacked neatly on the shelf to the right of her bed, more of a cot really. One stack had their backs pointed to the wall to indicate which ones she was finished with. The other pile pointed in the opposite direction for the ones she cared enough to reread. Prison had left her with plenty of free time to tear them apart word by word, separating the rubbish and drivel from those with true value.

Did she forget? Or is she just ashamed of me? The bitter thoughts ran through her mind as she counted down the seconds. Gritting her teeth beneath her lips, being careful to ensure no one could see how nervous she was, dreading that her worst fear had come true, despite what she'd sacrificed already to preserve what little sense of normalcy she had left.

The small hand of the standard issue wall clock pointed to the four and its taller brother had a spear prepared to strike a third of the way between the painted black nine and ten. Visiting hours ended at six so there was time yet, but that didn't put Annette at ease.

It'd been hard on her songbird. A family member in prison was tough on anyone, especially when it was the mother. The heart of the family, though Annette couldn't say she'd been the prime example of such a person. Danny had taken on that role well enough though. She'd worn the pants of their relationship and did so with the natural grace a monarch such as herself had been graced with since birth. Danny, he was much less refined, indicative of his humble origins. A kind, honest man. No wonder she always seemed to be able to sweep him away through will alone. Which wasn't to say he was easy to break if anything it was a source of pride she never made him angry enough to lose his wits, though seeing him finally break and unleash that carefully contained anger was a treat. Always there to remind her she didn't marry a pushover, at least when sh wasn't involved at least.

Excuses aside, doubt had managed to creep into the corners of her mind. Maybe she could've tried harder to be warmer. To leave aside the lessons her previous two lives had ingrained within her. To sit idly back and become just another suburban soccer mom. To let it all just drift away, until not a shred of her former self remained. It made the caged woman absolutely disgusted with herself that she might've wanted such a thing. Still, it was a comfort sometimes to fantasize.

Instead, Taylor got a monster like her. That little fact hadn't discouraged her, too much anyway. They were bound in blood, and Annette was still royalty in her own mind, determined to make her memory last through the gifts imparted upon her offspring. Taylor would know where she stood in the world, above all the other peons.

A buzzer blared, assaulting her sensitive ears and drowning out the sound of the sand singing to her from outside. Temporarily distracting her from the storm of anxiety brewing her stomach. She shamed herself into keeping her composure. She was better than that; Annette couldn't let the guards see her caught in the throes of something as mundane as her emotions.

She had to stay dignified, for Taylor, for her family. For all of their collective pride. The ringlike collar around her neck itched, sweat budding below its smooth metal surface, sitting skin tight to her flesh yet leaving her breathing unrestricted as though it were molded around her neck with clay and embedded into her body like some esoteric sensory organ. Tinkers truly were miracle workers to anybody not being held captive by their infernal contraptions. Many a night Annette thought about how she regretted not taking time out of her life to personally murder every one of them.

Heavy boots thunked down the tiled floor of the hallway, the sound resonating across the barren off-white walls. She resisted the urge to scratch at the device around her neck, no doubt one of Dragon's pet projects; the bitch was the go-to tinker for parahuman containment. So it wouldn't surprise Annette as she stood her ground and submitted herself to merely admiring the handiwork.

Her face eased back into a look of cold, disinterest. Stoking up an air of steadfast resolve for her approaching audience as she stood up from her bed, she crossed arms to punctuate her point, as though it were the guards who were at fault. Delaying her daughter, and angering their betters, namely her. Impression was everything. She prayed in the back of her mind that she hadn't been blown off by her own daughter, one of the few people left on earth whose opinion mattered.

The guards took ten seconds to make it to the entrance to her cell. The leader was unarmed, looking like your run of the mill prison guard carrying only a ring of labeled keys in hand. The three men behind him, in contrast, were loaded for bear, fully equipped tac-vests carrying the normal PRT kit, con-foam grenades, knives, radios, and a plethora of other less notable tools. Each man carried a submachine gun to defend himself. No doubt kicking themselves for getting such a boring detail.

The guard spoke over the clanking of the keys as he cycled through looking for the one that went with her cell, relaying the standard spiel that they spewed out whenever they escorted her out of it.

"Shatterbird, you have a visitor. Stand with your back facing us, your hands above your head and against the wall."


	2. Aria 1-2

Aria 1.2

His tone was official, no doubt practiced in front of mirror for months on end. It didn't impress Annette anymore than when she'd first been allowed to see her daughter after turning herself in. Still, she complied. Letting out a sigh of relief once her face was out of view. She stared into the wall of the one person room before giving it her best indignant scowl. Taylor had arrived, and all was right with the universe. Well, as right as circumstances allowed. There were no other options for her besides defiance and a cancelled visit. The gate opened with a clank, and a pair of hands began patting her down, checking the cape for any improvised weapons.

She gritted her teeth, trying to fight back against the way her skin crawled. Bile seemed to rise to the back of her throat as the pleb's hands roamed across her body. There were a select few she'd ever allowed to even lay a hand on her! The indignity was almost too much for her to bear without lashing out, but she could suffer the small humiliation for now. She dug her hands into the cement brick so hard she thought it might crumble beneath her grasp, her fingers flexing and twitching ever so slightly, her digits aching from the effort. She always left the frisk's feeling like she needed a shower, or even just a steel brush to scrape away the lingering feelings if rage and disgust that seemed to dry into a nauseating crust over her flesh. To say it was the least favorite part of the little ritual she had to go through to see her daughter was an understatement.

The hands pulled away, the guard apparently satisfied with the way he'd groped her. What was normal prison procedure for dangerous inmates was a crime against nature to the regal Shatterbird.

"She's clean, and the choker's diagnostics are good." _About time!_ she screamed in her head. The two minute process felt like centuries, leaving her like a man dying of dehydration next in line to visit a water park.

"Alright, down the hallway." She turned around and made her way out the cell, only now noticing the greying hair of the guard that had opened the door. Usually the guards changed, most never really wanting to stick near the parahuman wing of the facility for too long. Annette couldn't blame them. Even with the extra security and electronic overhead from Dragon it only took a cape losing it for a second to end up another fatality statistic. Combine this with the fact that she never really cared to remember their faces anyway and he was just another uniform.

The troopers flanked her from behind, hands curled tight around the stublike barrels of their weapons. They were a different story. A part of the small rotating team that were meant to keep the powered inmates in line, and even then it was usually only the higher profile ones like her that they worried about. They were made up of about fifteen or so different officers. Most were only temporary, but the three behind her had supposedly been on about three years prior to her imprisonment. She liked to think they served as good of an honor guard as any.

It was only a short walk to the parahuman wing through about three different gates, each one rated to stand up to about a brute six beating for about half an hour, shaving five minute so for roughly each extra rank. She could hear the warden now, that surly drawl that had just barest hint of Midwest in her voice.

Down a hallway which lead to the much more historical Brockton Correctional facility. In truth the Parahuman wing was a much newer addition built onto the older facility, a response to Scion and the relative chaos powers had introduced to the world.

The warden had been eager to make the facts those facts as clear as possible to Annette when she was first inducted, as though that would've stopped her had she not been forced to wear the Choker. The seemingly harmless accessory shocking her with the force of a high-strength taser everytime the pitch of her voice got high enough to use her power. She didn't know what the damn things power source was, being so small and light. But the fact that her cell wasn't lined with lead at least told her she wouldn't be needing chemo anytime soon.

Down the hallway and past another gate that could take about brute three, until the team pushed her through a doorway to a small fifteen by ten room dedicated to visitation. Across from her was a stainless steel table that was bolted to the ground and a pair of moderately comfortable chairs greeting her alongside a set of steel barred gate and another door which lead to the processing area. A guard peeked in from the window at the door.

Her normal unyielding and focused gaze softened into a smile as she saw who was sitting in the chair. She couldn't be mad whenever her family visited, her dearest daughter come to whisk her away from the banality of prison life, even if only for an hour. It was painful, watching her spring up so suddenly. Each visit Taylor had seemed to have grown an inch until Annette stood at her jaw, displaying quite obvious which parent she'd gotten her height from.

"Songbird, you made it. I was beginning to worry, thought you might've decided to skip out. You're old enough to start rebelling aren't you? To think your dear mother isn't the end all to be all." Ending the joke with a little chuckle. Shattering every window in Dubai when I played my music too loud. Killing and wounding thousands, see I was a teenager too.

The collared woman's smile, practiced for decades to shield away every insecurity held true. Behind that look of cold, almost smug joy was a genuine light in her eyes, like a charmed snake or grinning rakshasa of Hindu myth. One could've mistaken her for actually enjoying her stay, hoping to show off the constant vacation prison life had to be.

Come visit Brockton Correctional, where the nazis are caged, and the bad girls will steal your heart. The image of an inmate in old time stripes lounging in the courtyard graced her mind before being dashed away. She had to focus, her daughter was here. One of the few lights of her life. She deserved her mother's undivided attention.

"I tried but then I remembered you had me beat. Figured I'd ask for some pointers before I made the plunge." Taylor dead panned back, a tiny smile shining through what was no doubt a flood of teenage angst. At least Shatterbird hoped so, she could always ask later on. Considering the way her past had been brought to bear.

"I'll ask the guards to make a spot in my cell open. Make it a little twenty five to life slumber party, like when Emma used to visit." Annette blinked when the corner of Taylor's mouth seem to twitch slightly at the mention of her best friend's name. Odd, were they fighting? Did Danny confide in Alan about his wife's past? The sense of betrayal, and the sheer fact that his best friend's lover was an A-class threat enough to make him no longer allow her child to see her best, and seemingly only friend?

She'd tear him apart! Everything was gone, her job, her freedom! Both lost. The ability to even see her family tightly controlled by the state. If he was making her broodling's life a hair harder than it already was she'd shave his skin away in a storm of sand, turn his entire yuppie neighborhood into a localised dust bowl that shredded away everything until nothing but bone was left!

"Yeah." Her daughter paused for a second as though she didn't know what to say, her mouth open. She suppressed the urge to tell her it was an unrefined habit to leave your mouth open. This was family time, and she wasn't going to let anything ruin it for her daughter, she could make bad memories when she got out. If she got out.

"She told me to say hi." Annette's mind was back at ease, though still diligent. Now if only she could actually get her hands on that mayor. She'd done it before, acting as the one to hold Danny steady, and to serve as extra muscle in the event a shouting match occurred. The fact that she was Shatterbird having came out only expanded the bag of tricks she wished she could've utilized.

"Say hello back for me. You tell her the real reason I'm away?"

"We stuck with the whole visa thing. She hasn't spoken up about it since anyway so no need to clear anything up. Just…" Taylor paused once more, this time her mouth closed as though she were in thought for a few more seconds. "Yeah though, everything's alright, easier to stick with the story than make her lose her mind about knowing a cape. Dad misses you a lot, like always. He's sorry again about not coming in today. It's his yearly pitch."

"Maybe he should mention the real reason I'm gone, it'd give him leverage."

"Not when you're stuck here."

"Never know. Still, I don't blame you two for being so quiet about it."

"Mom."

"Taylor, I kept my mouth shut for seventeen years. I understand." Annette did her best to make a warm smile, managing to morph her smile into a tiny grin, similar to the one Taylor had made earlier. Not quite the all embracing bearhug one normally expected, but a hand on the shoulder, an offering of comfort. If the pair's relation were ever in question, that alone would shut anyone up. Annette knew all too well, she'd played the same game most of her life with them. The consequences just seemed to be dwarfed by how easy it all seemed to just go with the cover story.

"...yeah, but if you weren't...y'know." Taylor lowered her eyes, looking down at a particularly deep scratch in the table.

"Love…" She sighed, reaching up to place a hand on her daughter's shoulder. She still had to take a moment to stand in awe of how tall she'd sprouted. Her smile faded back to a steadfast expression. Offering the girl something to latch onto, to act as her rock. "It was this, fight, or the birdcage. The latter two meant I'd probably never see you or your father again."

"I know, but... " Taylor trailed off again, her voice going back to that quiet hum that'd seemed to crop up after her mom's capture.

"It's okay dear. Sadly, what's done is done. Besides, now I can't be distracted by my painting. Just you and me. Best group therapy money can buy and the PRT is fronting the bill."

"Optimistic, you make it sound like you want to be here."

"Good, been thinking if I keep it up they'll think the real punishment is letting me out."

They continued like this for the rest of the hour, Annette pestering and asking questions like any parent. Albeit digging deeper than normal, though no one would blame her. Seeing your daughter only three or four times a month during one of the most important times of her life would do that. They ran through the latest books they'd read, Taylor promising to mail them over. Annette recanted some of the tales from the wing. Some of the newer parahumans that'd been transferred over. Without naming names of course. It almost felt normal. Annette wished she could've made their time together last forever.

Still she couldn't help but get the sense her daughter was hiding something. Annette held her tongue, hoping that if she played it safe, tried to play it warmer - to be the parent she kinda wished she could've been that Taylor would be able to open up to her. The guards eventually buzzed in a five minute warning, cutting them off with a harsh static filled squawk. Annette did what was natural and gave her offspring a hug before she was forced to return to that solitary cell.

"I love you songbird. Don't forget it, tell your father I miss him."

"Alright, love you too." When the words registered in her mind, Annette had to bite down on her jaw, feeling the tears well up at the corner of her eyes. She cut them back with the lethal slash of her iron edged will. She had to be strong, to be the family's keeper. Doing what had to be done, as she always did. Taylor needed Annette, Shatterbird had nearly taken her mother away. Annette had picked her name for the second time, and she wasn't going to change it again.


	3. Aria 1-3

Hey apologees for not posting the rest from spacebattles, I was feeling tired and went the bed, gonna post the rest of them on here now and hopefully all of you enjoy it. If you wanna see any interludes or omakes I write I'll post the link to my spacebattles thread on my account page as soon as I finish. Still, enjoy peeps.

Aria 1.3

The sheer audacity! How could her mom act like this! There was no way she could be as collected as she seemed to be. Taylor didn't know how she was doing it. Pretending like having to plan out her visits two months in advance was alright. Sitting there, talking as though it were perfectly normal to have a mother who could bring an entire city to its knees, who nearly had. She was even making jokes about it! From the start, her mother had treated it as though nothing were wrong, like it was all part of the plan in the first place, leaving Taylor and her father dumbfounded in her wake.

Taylor held her legs to her chest the entire bus ride to town, her heels digging into the blue faux leather cushions, knees nearly slamming into her glasses each time the bus hit a pothole. A new 'Cape bay! USA' t-shirt stood out against her tanned complexion as a bright neon green reminder of just how well the day had gone. A small plastic bag one of the guards had handed to her on her way out occupied the space next to her, a diminutive ward against anybody who contemplated interrupting her angst by sitting next to her. He'd been dressed differently from the other guards, looking like an extra from some action movie, black faceless helmet and flak vest included, no doubt with orders to shoot to kill should mom try anything erratic. He'd been kind merely giving her a nod and saying it was from her mom and that they'd finished checking for anything suspicious.

It was a gift, It was easy to guess what it was too. All from a woman who'd apparently neglected to mention she'd recently been allowed to participate in the reformatory art classes allowed to the general population for good behavior. With restrictions on the materials she could work with and an armed guard present at all times of course. Yeah, can't be distracted. Except on her off time, Taylor thought to herself. She hadn't bothered to unwrap the rectangular object from the plain white tissue paper covering it up.

The fact that her mom hadn't made a comment on her shirt just showed how wrong things were with the world. She was never afraid to make her opinion heard, to pitch in her two cents as her father put. Combine that with a firm belief in a type of old-world elegance and class, and you ended up with someone who could be unbearable at times. It seemed that Shatterbird's capture had just forced Taylor to trade one thing she didn't like about her mom for another.

Still, she and Emma had at gotten along pretty well, especially with their joint appreciation for fashion.

Taylor cringed in her seat, thinking back to her former best friend, trying not to dwell on how badly she reacted during her visit. Luckily for the girl, mother hadn't noticed or had simply thought it was her fledgling once more feeling dismayed over the situation they'd been thrust into.

Taylor sighed and stared out the window, watching the highway roll behind her as various gas stations and chain convenience stores filed past. They stood a silent vigil over the transport and its passengers, ready to offer cheap comfort to any weary traveler that passed.

Bright orange coronas radiated across the sky, slowly fading into reds and finally purples near the edge as the bus finally hit the main bridge over the south river into Brockton. The sun slowly drifted to take its rest past the crest of the ocean.

It reminded Taylor of the painting hanging over the living room mantle, well at least they'd called it the mantle, the lack of a fireplace making it more an adage than anything else. Very impressionist, with each stroke, used to full effect. The painting portrayed the Brockton harbor in its prime, filled to the brim with ships of all sizes, shapes, and colors, the largest being the red cargo ship that drifted its way into the harbor. Standing to its right was the ocean, a miasma of dark blues and greens with tiny strokes creating the barest hint of purple straining out from the edges. All of it was overseen by the setting sun, long brushes of orange created light that hit the bay and mixed its own reds and yellows into the enrapturing palette. You could barely see the beginnings of tall grey skyscrapers that held white specks that helped to bring to life the lights of Brockton Bay in earnest from the far left.

It'd been an anniversary gift from her mother to dad before Taylor had been born. Mom's way of reminding him of what he was trying to achieve with his efforts at the dock workers association. Also, the first one of her mom's paintings Taylor had asked about or even seen. Though what did she know about building something up? Taylor spat bitterly into the maelström of emotions howling inside her head. She was Shatterbird, The Breaker of Dubai, the Cracker of London, The terror of Brockton bay since before Taylor was born. She was Mom.

None of it changed a thing when she got home. She still opened the door and stepped through that hallway hoping to find her mother, brush in hand, the very same painting lounging on her easel as she touched it up, renewing any colors that might've faded even if it was far too recent to need it, her posh British accent ringing clear through the air of their tiny house greeting Taylor home with a "Hello songbird."

Taylor had no such luck, filing past her dad sleeping on the recliner, his folder holding all the facts and notes he'd made for the benefits of renewing the ferry laying in an unruly pile on his lap. The only sign of her mom was her painted signature that was ever so skillfully brushed on the bottom right corner of the painting. It had been an exhausting day for both Taylor and her father evidently. She opted not to wake him; he needed his rest and she didn't want to bother him with the details of her visit. She quickly grabbed a snack bag of chips from the kitchen for dinner and filed up to her room as quietly and efficiently as her tiptoes allowed. She resigned herself to a night of browsing PHO. The plastic bag holding her mother's gift lay unopened on the top of her nightstand.

She idly tapped away at her laptop, checking threads she'd put on her watch list and browsing for anything interesting. Her friend 'KolchakTheHaunter' had messaged back after a week of silence.

They were some local cape junky that spent their spare time trying to hunt down parahumans on their patrols. One of the more successful ones too, in that they managed to survive and not become collateral. Their profile was sparse, only a name, an avatar and their photos: at least two catalogs of pics of the aftermath of various cape fights and a pic or two of the Wards on patrol. They had a decent collection, mind you in a city like Brockton everyone had a picture or two from the PRT HQ tour, but nothing like this.

They'd met via a thread talking about cape costumes and the various minutiae that went into them. Kolchak had gotten into an argument on where Shadow Stalker held her crossbow bolts after joining the Wards had necessitated a costume adjustment, using one of their pics as evidence to prove she didn't use a quiver nowadays. They still lost the debate due to how bad the photo quality was, but it was clearly Brockton's resident living shadow.

However, Taylor was impressed, needing to take a deeper look at Kolchak's profile to see if she had more. Only to find her wishes granted. Siena worthy they were not, but the amount of good shots was worth a Private message. From there the two had discovered they shared many similar grievances with their families and an interest in costume design. Especially on the practicality and usability side of things.

She'd been sent a new pic, a bunch of merchants beaten down in an alleyway, one of them carrying the gang's tag spray-painted on to the back of his jacket. The shot was taken from up high, maybe a roof or something. An impressive shot no doubt, though the camera quality wasn't the best, it was definitely made up for by the sheer proximity of the photo. Must be an exciting life dodging muggers looking for the perfect photograph.

KolchakTheHaunter: Someone kicked some ass. Might've been some rival dealers but I got the feeling its cape shit. You know I have the nose for that sorta thing.

RefinedToppan: I trust your judgment. Amazing! though are they alive? Should call the police.

KolchakTheHaunter: I could but then they'd ask questions. Cape hunting isn't a valid alibi.

KolchakTheHaunter: Merchants anyway who cares? Besides someone already did. I hear the sirens now.

RefinedToppan: Good to hear someone out there tonight has a conscience. Just keeping you in check, I'd feel bad if I let your attitude get someone killed though.

KolchakTheHaunter: Blame the rules. How'd the visit go?

RefinedToppan: What rules? And alright, she's still acting like things are normal, trying to make it seem like this is good for everyone.

KolchakTheHaunter: Shit. She doesn't get how fucked it is? Damn, thick as a rock. My mom knows how things are, she just gives no shits, just waiting until she can kick me out legally. What we have is two sides of the bitch coin here. Also, the rules of cape hunting: don't intervene. Just observe. Some real David Attenborough shit.

RefinedToppan: I know, fuck is it frustrating. I love her, but fuck… And yeah absolutely guess that makes you a documentarian now? and British. Cheerio gov'na.

KolchakTheHaunter: Moms, overrated right? Also I'm too badass to be a Brit, all American right here.

RefinedToppan: Yeah, well got any more pics Miss Militia? Would rather not think about my mom right now. Yours still giving you shit?

KolchakTheHaunter: I'm curbside at 11 pm, what do you think? I have a backlog, not big though. Same reasons I haven't been on.

They chatted long into the night, a few more aftermath pics from several nights ago and some much-needed conversation later Taylor was off to bed. Maybe not completely okay, but at ease for the night. One of the last friends she offered her some comfort, as superficial as their connection was.

Sunset had come once more to mark the ending of another day for the country's cape capitol. With it went the few pretenses of kindness or harmony that might've been able to drag themselves out of bed, leaving the city with nothing but the cold concrete jungle and its many monsters and vicious tribes all battling it out for survival beneath the steel-rebar sky. Along with them, one girl who just wanted a hug, but couldn't tell anyone no matter how much she wanted to, her mom one of the most destructive creatures of them all.

This was when one of the night's self-proclaimed predators was preparing for the hunt. Her black cloak trailed behind her silently, making the barest whisper as she adjusted the straps holding her quiver. The black mask hid a grim frown, crossbow at her feet. All of her equipment was held over from better days. From before she'd ever been chained against her will, forced to pay lip service to the law. Showing restraint in the face of the scum that walked the streets, and the pissants that cowered when faced with even the slightest hint confrontation.

That being said it wasn't nearly as good as the gear the Protectorate provided, but nostalgia was always a factor. It let her feel like she was still free. Free to hunt down and bring her boot down hard on the throats of each criminal that stalked the night. To teach them their place, beneath her heel.

Really she could have hunted down anyone, but it wasn't as invigorating when all you got were runts that didn't fight back. That stood there and took it with tears in their eyes. The losers, the bootlickers, the pathetic pieces of trash like Hebert.

Sophia spent a few more minutes checking her gear. She might've been parahuman, but if she'd learned anything it was you got a lot further when you weren't fighting your own kit. Not that she really needed to, it all fit like an old glove. Her movements felt as natural and unrestricted as ever while she rolled her shoulders, making sure nothing was out of place. It was nice and had the added benefit of not tipping off the PRT about her movements. The Wards would have a fit if they knew; no one but Emma understood what she was doing.

Confident that she was finally ready, she took a running start and leaped off the edge of the roof, the wind whipping past her as she shifted into her shadow state. It felt like her body was an amorphous blob, wrinkling and shifting against the air as she flew through it, propelling herself far higher than if she'd stayed solid. She shifted back as soon as made it to the next roof and repeated the process, quickly navigating the low-income burbs of the east bay without a sweat. This was what life was about, not school, not track, not even stopping crime with the Wards. The glorified children they were, or the director's little pet project, Hebert!

Sophia gritted her teeth as she remembered their assault on the four-eyed freak: Emma hurling insults as the rest of them pummeled her with their lunches, from above the stall's prefabricated walls. Sophia took sadistic pleasure from the visible stains of juice that had spattered across her shirt. Let her mom see her now, the pretentious bitch. At least that's what Emma had said she was. Some pathetic painter with a mouth too big for her own good, hiding behind a huge vocabulary and a stupid accent. All she knew was the woman was across the pond, deported for some slight or another back to Tealand.

She felt like a wild dog, filled with to the brim with strength as she darted through the night. Out for blood and in a city filled too many people asking to provide it. Half an hour in she got her first scent of a new target. Darting for the nearest sound of trouble she stopped on the roof of some boarded up pawn shop, standing on the edge of the alleyway. Her cloak was drawn over her body, evoking the silhouette of a gargoyle as she camouflaged herself with the night. If only the three potential rapists below her were so lucky.

They were all merchants, of course, couldn't get any lower than the east Burbs where no other gang could turn a profit besides the hobos. Sophia didn't even bother to see how the woman was reacting, too eager to fight to care about her usual modus operandi. Leaping to the ground in her shadow state, she landed as a silent blob five feet by the rapist to the right. He was too busy with assaulting and groping his victim to really notice.

His friend right across from him got a full show of Sophia slamming the butt of her crossbow into his neck, the noise resounding with a heavy smack as the rapist buckled and leaned into a tiny step forward, giving her room to follow it up with a kick to his back, slamming the foul-smelling hobo into the man right across from him who was just standing there slack-jawed, unable to believe that the shadows of Brockton were coming to life. It also helped that he was no doubt on drugs, his eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching around the iron pipe he had in his hand.

The third merchant wasn't so clouded, dodging the flailing body of his friend and making a grab for Sophia, who instinctively shifted into her shadow state, gritting her proverbial teeth in pain as the blob of darkness undulated slightly from phasing through his fist, then quickly darted behind the man and shifted back. Crossbow primed, she pinned him with a resounding snap of her crossbow cord. The wet thwack of her bolt hitting him in his gut indicating the bolt had hit home, sending him backward reeling in pain.

By this time the other men had gotten back up. Sophia armed her crossbow in a practiced motion, only to feel the impact of the first man's fist against her hockey mask. She shifted once more, rolling backward, using the motion to finally get the damn thing prepped, kicking herself in the back of the head for her misstep. She should've had it ready, but it seemed that she was growing spoiled. The crossbows the Wards had given her were much smoother, easier to reload. She pulled the trigger and the man with the pipe was on the ground, a bolt hanging from his kneecap.

That left his friend who stood there, unarmed against a cape whom he had no hope of winning against. He stared back, trembling before raising his arms to the sky. She greeted his surrender with a kick to the head, feeling a grin run across her face as she felt his jaw crunch from the blow with a sickening crack. The man collapsed to the ground and joined his friends lying there, most likely not unconscious but very secure in their defeat.

That's when the woman she'd saved butted in on her moment of victory, clutching her leg and sobbing into the black cloak. Sophia needed to hold herself back from giving the helpless girl a steel-toed kick to the stomach, grinding her leg into the pavement to give it something to do other than perpetuate more violence.

These were the people she hated, weak, hoping for someone else to save them and pick up their mess. If she'd fought back, done anything! She might not have needed Shadow Stalker's help. Well, help was too strong a word. She'd been taking out the trash; getting that woman out of harm's way had been an unwanted benefit. The fact was luck had saved her. She'd been Shadow Stalker's first find of the night and Sophia had jumped the gun, eager to take out her frustration on the hapless criminals laid out before her.

Not like mom would appreciate it, the Wards either. Even if she was doing their jobs! At least she had Emma to talk about all the sick shit she'd pulled. All the scum she'd taken down, the prey she'd left for the sharks. The only other person was a bit squeamish, but at least they appreciated her work.

She wished all nights were like this. Instead, she had school, and the regulations on her patrols, and all the other bullshit she had to contend with in order to keep doing what she did best, kick ass. She quickly tore the bolts out of her victims, not even looking at the crying woman as she did, carefully inspecting them for breaks before putting them back into her quiver.

She turned her head and looked at the would-be victim. A blonde haired girl that looked to be about mid-twenties at most, definitely leaning towards at most. She was wearing nothing but a white tank top and a black skirt that had to have been against most public indecency laws. She might've been a hooker, or maybe some girl slumming it for the night. The hunter didn't care, the fact was she was pathetic. Still, there was one thing Sophia needed to say to her before she ran off.

"I wasn't here, some other dealers took them out and ignored you. Understand?" her voice a deep growl. She couldn't have an unapproved patrol like this getting out, but she didn't think the girl would mind keeping her mouth shut, and the hunter was right. The blonde giving a shaky nod before running off to whatever trash heap she called home.

If only she hadn't been caught, then she wouldn't need to keep tabs on filth like Hebert for the director. The sow's words thundered in her head, pissing her off, reminding her how truly pathetic her favorite target really was.

"This girl is currently on our list of potential triggers, she also attends your school, consider this your first 'mission' of sorts while working with the wards. If you want us to go through with your proposed deal, we need you to keep an eye on her. We want weekly reports on her behavior, who she talks to, what she does. If she even seems to be the slightest bit unhinged or is acting erratically in any way we want to know about it. We can't officially track her down, but if there's the potential for her to wreak havoc in public we want to know about it. This is our lifeline to you Shadow Stalker if you want to be part of my wards, if you want to avoid juvie! You'll toe the line, keep the handle cranked low on patrols and your eyes open."

She'd had no choice, it was part of the deal that kept her out of juvie. Easy enough considering she and Emma had started breaking her down three months prior, but it didn't make it any more enjoyable.

Sophia still remembered the way Piggot's fat tongue rolled around her mouth, slapping into her teeth and lips as she spoke, sending out tiny, nearly imperceptible drops of spittle into the air. She shouldn't have had to take orders from her, she was Shadow Stalker, not some little league soccer player!

She also remembered needing to spend a good two hours in the training room beating on a punching bag to work off the anger that was shooting through her spine like lightning. It made her muscles twitch and spasm, just asking her to slam her arms into any available object just to feel it shatter and crack against her fist. Her lungs ready to burst, begging to cry out in fury.

Hebert. Hebert! She could trigger! She could fight back! Then why the hell wasn't she! Three months of bullying, three months of Emma trying to prove to her that this whelp was actually strong that had been wasted! Now it turned out the odds were also stacked in her favor! Did she just choose to be this way? To be a rat, a fly buzzing around until someone splattered it across the wall with a swatter. Sophia wouldn't stand for this bullshit. If Taylor wasn't going to prove that last spark of faith Emma had in the girl, Sophia was damn sure going to make sure she was dirt under her heel. She deserved nothing more until everyone stopped obsessing over her!

Sophia leaped back onto the roof, her feet hitting the ground solid once again, her anger renewed by the caustic memories that working their way through her neurons. Still, at least she was in an easy position to fake the paperwork. Knowing how weak four eyes was just meant even if she ever did trigger it only made her more of a challenge.

She paused, the distinct sense that she'd forgotten something buzzing at the edge of her nose, ah. She quickly took out her burner and snapped a few pictures of her victory. Sure she couldn't quite admit it was herself, but a burner and a fake email went a long way alongside a few lies. Besides it always felt good to be recognized even if it was indirectly. At least Toppan liked what she saw even if they didn't quite see eye to eye.


	4. Aria 1-4

The PRT's official statement was that Shatterbird had been apprehended without any reported casualties after a 4-hour standoff with the PRT when she was sighted near the Peter D. Stahltz community center. The first surprise was that the PRT was willing to sit on their hands and wait, just begging for her to make a move. The second one was that it worked.

Calvin wouldn't have been so patient; he would've hit fast and hard, gave her no time to get settled in. He would've preferred if they'd gone in hot, at least then there was the chance they'd take her out. It was disgusting, letting someone like that have even a smidge of mercy. One could understand not wanting to employ lethal force against every villain that robbed a convenience store, but sometimes monsters were monsters. The thing that made his blood boil was how they still lacked the gall to execute her. She had a damn kill order and they stuck her in a cell, not even the birdcage. Telling the world that she was in an unnamed prison before patting themselves on the back and hyping it up as another victory for the good guys.

He could read between the lines, anybody with a brain could see she'd struck a deal. Avoided justice for the thousands she'd killed. He wasn't going to make the same mistake when he finally looked her in the eye.

Brockton had gotten off easy compared to Hartford. He'd found his goal on that lazy spring evening, his parents torn apart in their car when Shatterbird had made her performance as the clock struck twelve and leaving him moving from foster family to foster family.

Then Master Crane found him, plucking him from the constant cycle of therapy and pity that ended in just shrugging him off as damaged goods. It was Crane who'd seen something in him, a spark of greatness. She'd been the one who'd guided him. Helped him see who was the cause for the problems in his life, aiding him without any of the pity, without patronizing him.

It had hurt at first- intense training that left him battered and his muscles cramped, feeling like they were wound so tight they seemed to crush the bones they were attached to, his body bruised and nearly broken.

Crane tutored him, urged him to find the match that would ignite the fire in his belly. To give him the drive to push forward. Crane had helped him find it, nurtured it, and all she'd asked for in return was for him to keep going.

He hadn't even known how much he hated the glass manipulating villain until Crane had shown him how she was responsible for all the pity, all the somber shakes of the head that every therapist made as he explained his thoughts. Making him feel like something was wrong with him when he was perfectly fine! Crane had given him the tools, and now he'd use them, wiping away the looks, all those glances at the scars that marred his body! It'd all be gone, and he could breathe freely for just five minutes.

Fifty thousand dollars, Calvin needed fifty thousand dollars if he was ever going to make the last payment and he didn't like to waste time running fool's errands trying to get to his real target.

Coil was good for a lot of things, and luckily for Calvin information was one of them. The snake had a sliver of info on the imprisoned villain, but as with most things a fee was in order. Where Shatterbird was being held was privileged information that came at a pretty penny, but the criminal overlord also knew how to barter. That was what brought Calvin to the top of a warehouse at the edge of the river that flowed west into the wilderness that served as a buffer between the nitro-fueled hellfire that was Brockton Bay and the rest of the world. Not that it was much different outside the city's borders.

He watched his target through a pair of binoculars on one knee, thankful for the padded knees and tear resistant fabric making up the pants of his costume. Even kneeling was like scraping your leg across the jagged grille of a rusted over car wreck, just begging to invite tetanus. The pair of black metal batons that hung at his sides nearly poked the floor, a series of small metal nubs running down their surface.

His costume was made up of leftover clothing Crane had given as he was trained, those that still fit anyway, alongside a few token pieces to hide his identity and to fit the theme he'd chosen for his cape persona. A simple grey and black urban camouflage pattern ran down his pants and onto the heavy boots and his gold, armless suit-vest had various patterns that evoked the image of incense smoke traced along its silken surface. All this was worn over a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his arms to the night air. His head was covered by a black balaclava with the image of a Genie printed on the back, nostrils flared with steam that billowed out and curved down across the sides of the fabric to meet right over his mouth.

All of it came together to create a stylistically disjointed costume, one that tried to force various parts to work with one another and almost succeeded. It still made him look like some bizarre mashup between a professional soldier and a Las Vegas stage magician.

The warehouse was old, its roof filled with holes and rusted from years of neglect. The only thing setting it apart from every other structurally unstable shack waiting to collapse under its own weight was the fact that the Empire was making another arms deal just across the river. That and it was just tall enough that he wouldn't need to overshoot his teleport to survive the fall from the roof while still getting him up close, yet discreet enough that his targets wouldn't see him coming. Twenty feet of water separated him from his target: the abandoned factory, a black top parking lot so cracked it may as well have been dirt visible from his perch. He waited with a steely calm, the normal shakiness of a person's nerves vacant, sitting there like a bullet in the chamber ready to be shot off into battle. Tonight Djinn was going pay some hapless baby-stomping Empire grunts a visit, Coil was going to be a little bit richer and his enemies a little less well armed. Too low of a price in Calvin's opinion, but then he was in no position to complain was he?

He wasn't sure if he wanted a cape to show or not. The idea of facing down one of their lieutenants appealed to him on a visceral level, to feel the crunch of their bones underneath his baton, to watch their bodies buckle and fall to the floor under a flurry of blows, to be locked in the throes of a true fight -it would be cathartic. No, Calvin was too close now to take unnecessary chances. He had to be in and out. Still, what harm was there in a daydream or two?

He was rewarded ten minutes later when a newish looking SUV and a battered pickup truck with a tarp tied over its bed pulled into the parking lot, the SUV taking the lead as it came to a quiet halt before the lead car dispensed its cargo of four men including the driver. The truck quickly made a three-point turn, backing up next to the vehicle, two more people exiting from the passenger door. It was showtime.

Calvin quickly clipped the binoculars back onto his belt and drew the batons before taking a few small steps back. Anticipation swelling in his chest as his torso tightened with each breath. He took a running start, the wind howling across his eyes as he jumped off the three-story roof. The only sign of the rapidly encroaching ground was that the rooftops seemed to suddenly grow taller to dwarf his six-foot-tall silhouette as he fell. His vest splayed out and ruffled against the air as he fell.

A few seconds of adrenaline filled free fall ended with a shudder that exploded across his legs as he hit dirtside, the force of hitting the pavement rattling his body. A blast of energy radiated through the air and reverberated back deep into his skin, making the hairs on the back his neck stand up as he translated the shivers into a mental map of every empty space within the radius of the shockwave which had spread out over the river and halfway across the factory's length. Imperceptible to most aside from those who had power enhanced hearing or sense of touch.

The gangsters, their buyer, and the vehicles were all laid out before him clear as day as a series of shapes and blobs. He quickly chose a spot near the blob that seemed to have strayed the farthest from the group, bringing him close to edge of his map, a decision that had the side benefit of his power nullifying most of fall's force. The slight thrum in the back of his ear and the tiny shivers that rolled down his spine in tiny waves to his legs told him so.

A mental switch flicked in his head and he had his destination. The entire process from hitting the ground to teleporting behind the unsuspecting Nazi had taken less than a tenth of a second.

His decision made, he then felt nothing, as though his body had disappeared and left him a floating brain in a jar, bereft of every sense, with nothing but his own inner monologue to comfort himself. Then his vision suddenly returned, the sanitized blob his powers had showed contrasting with the image of the aging skinhead that he stood behind, a swastika tattooed straight onto the shining bald dome reflecting back at him in the moonlight.

Calvin could feel his breath on fabric over his mouth, building condensation that made his mask wet to the touch around his lips. His grip tightened, the mover's body acted on its own, reflex taking over and bringing the metal baton in his right hand down hard onto the back of the fascist's head with a satisfying snap of the air, punctuated with a loud thwack. The blow landing straight into the target the man had inked onto his own flesh.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡

Take a shower, pick an outfit that wasn't going to draw attention to herself, eat some toast for breakfast before checking over her homework and plan out the best places to hide it from the ever-present spirits of despair that seemed to trail behind her each period, hungry for her blood and homework in equal measure. A grim regimen that'd been coached into Taylor via trial and error, all hoping to save her sanity. An average morning for any other teenager was instead a time to bunker down for a hike through no-man's-land for the tall, black-haired girl.

She'd managed not to cry this far, to not let them know they'd been getting to her. Well, she thought she did, looking back it was all mostly a spiraling blur of abuses and attacks that extended so far back she couldn't really say how she'd actually reacted to most of it. She could only hope she'd managed to not give the trio what they wanted.

The thing was, as she stood before that door painted in red pigment that was chipping slightly at the edges, she found her feet were suddenly stuck in dried cement. they were unwilling to obey her commands as she screamed for them to move. The nervous impulses that usually conveyed her will seemingly lost in translation. She turned around and made her way back down the short hallway and into the living room before falling back into the couch like her body was made of lead. She Flicked the shoes off her heels and kicked them onto the rug, her sneakers disposed of among the many cascading patterns echoing through the fabric.

She couldn't go back, not today. So she wouldn't. A simple method to avoid yet another day in that cage known as Winslow with all its jeering demons. Just one day to herself to break up the string of pranks, attacks, and insults, all of it perpetuated by girls who knew Taylor far too well for it not to strike home. She wished mom were here, or at least for the courage to tell her dad what was going on. Instead, she sat back and sent a simple text with bullshitted symptoms and tuned the TV to channel eleven, not so much to watch as for background noise.

She turned to her one of her few escapes to make the day go by, grabbing her phone and logging into PHO. The haven for all things fantastical and cape related. Where she'd dug up info on her mother's alter ego and prayed to find anything of substance about her mom's dirty secret. What she got was mortality statistics, headlines and the bitter confirmation that dear mother was a psycho.

There was no escapism for her aside from a new message from Kolchak. An extra picture from the night before that she'd fallen asleep too soon to see. Just a distant silhouette of a massive vehicle that seemed to be the result of a tank and a bus slamming together so hard that they couldn't be pried apart. Several turrets of varying size were placed across its hull, mish-mashed armored plating barely shining against the blurry street lights that were lit in the photo. Squealer's new rig rampaging across the Burroughs of Merchant territory. Good work as always from her borderline suicidal internet Bestie.

She looked over the photo for a while. She knew Kolchak's home life wasn't the best, which explained why they'd wanna be home as little as possible but damn, to chase down people like the Merchants and take candids.

Could Taylor have had the will to do that? To ignore the voice of reason that murmured in her ear. The one that told her to stay home and avoid the night's dangers, just like it had told her to lie to her father this morning in order to dodge yet another ruined shirt, yet another string of insults. She was sick of allowing all of them to corral her in her home, the trio, the gangs, the racists. There had to be a way to gain some semblance of agency in her life. She needed to make some bold choice, to take just one risk in order to jolt herself out of this waking death she found herself caught within.

That choice stared Taylor in the face. Kolchak must've felt the same way, like a passenger in their own life. Then she'd chosen to go out one night with nothing but a phone and a mission. Taylor could do the same.

It wasn't like she didn't already check over her shoulder at night, and if Kolchak was willing to give some pointers or maybe even let her tag along... It was better than just wallowing in her house day and night, only leaving for school, for groceries, the book shop, and to visit mom.

Not like she hadn't thought about it before, but she was like a prisoner whose cell door was left wide open. One who was too afraid or worn down by the world that lay outside those bleak iron bars to grasp the chance to escape. She couldn't take it anymore, that's why she was sitting on that couch. The ostentatious voice of some talk-show host interviewing a group of women who all claimed their kid's fathers were capes buzzed in her ears, quality day time television that was ignored as thoughts churned in her mind. What was stopping her?

She was off, her choice made. Scrolling through the forums, trying to get a better hand on the cape hunting scene in Brockton, she spent a good few hours combing through personal accounts trying to separate all the fake stories and photoshops from the real deal. Looking for tactics, tips, ways to make sure she wouldn't end up on a burning stake or another tick mark tattooed on some gangster's back while still getting the perfect shot. It felt good, like a shot of much needed life injected into her arm.

She sent Kolchak another message with the same goal, asking for essential gear and ways to stay safe. Now that she thought about it, maybe she could use her saved up allowance to get a camera, nothing expensive. Things were tighter than ever without a second income, as sporadic as her mother's commissions and art sales were, it was still money in the bank. There were a few pawn shops a bus ride away that could satisfy her need at a bargain.

Plans were forming, and the ways to achieve each step were right there within her reach. It was so clear, like the solution to every problem in her life had been plopped right there onto the carpet in writing next to her shoes, neatly organized with various appendices for further reference. She had a goal to orient toward besides merely surviving whatever trials Emma and her team of trained dogs had in place for the day. She had something to look forward to.


	5. Aria 1-5

The school hummed in unity, anticipating the bell like an army waiting for the call to war. An eager horde of delinquents, wannabe gangsters, and the one or two actual students would break free and wreak havoc in Brockton at their leisure when its metallic din rang across the halls. Practicing for the day when they'd graduate or flunk out, left to their own bitter devices in the Bay. The final minutes of school passed in painful drudgery while Taylor rolled her foot, trying not to rest her arch down on the uncomfortable roll of the twenties that sat in her shoe, staring down the clock wishing to be free alongside the rest of her peers. Her bullies usually didn't tear the shoes off her feet, but considering how long they'd been putting the pressure on without running dry of new ideas she wasn't going to underestimate their creativity.

There was no glue on Taylor's seat the beginning of class, they'd stopped trying as she'd started rotating through six different chairs in the back row, and no tripping since Taylor had made an effort to not get up from her chair during classes anymore. The worst she'd gotten this period was a few errant spitballs flung in her direction. It wasn't Sophia this time, strangely enough. Most of the volleys had been taken by some skinheads in class making use of an acceptable target. Sure it might not have been her intended effect, but who'd known that Emma was doing the Nazis a favor when she started her campaign?

This was the perfect time to strike; her position in the room and a Substitute unfamiliar with the usual sense of apathy towards her plight had kept the monsters at bay, for the most part, this period, but soon she would be left to fight her way out among the throngs of students seeking to escape their confinement as soon as possible. Sophia sat at the opposite side of the room, two or three seats from the door in the best spot to intercept Taylor's flight from the building. To stay in the room after class would only invite Sophia to trap her, but going out there among the crowd left her in just as vulnerable of a position. A mouse caught between holding her breath under the couch, hoping the cat wouldn't pounce, or risking herself in the savage wilds that lay just through the kitchen door.

However, Sophia seemed out of it today. Taylor noticed from her small corner of the world. The athlete was more focused on the pink notebook that lay splayed out in front of her than the movie that'd been put on in lieu of a lesson or stirring up mayhem for her victim of choice. Sophia's pencil traced across the pages of the spiral bound tome. Since when did she care so much about this class? Were they even being tested on this? Crap, were they?

The lanky teen squirmed in her seat, skittish as she waited for some unseen assault to spring into action during those last few seconds of the day. What if it was a trick, a way to ease her into a false sense of security? They'd done it before, had new kids approach her and pretend they weren't one of the trio's latest lackeys long enough to drop dead animals in her bag, or on one occasion even set off a firecracker in her locker. Other times they'd merely leave her alone for a week or two, letting her drop her guard only to pull off another malicious prank to blindside the girl. Normally small tics became glaring and obvious as Taylor lost herself in agonizing hyper-awareness. Unseen signals stood out clear as day: a kid getting up for a drink of water or Sophia in the front row biting the tip of her pencil, it all had to mean something. Taylor couldn't just be going crazy seeing all of them! It all forced her to mentally prepare for some hidden attack that might've managed to slip past her awareness. Mercifully, the bell cried out, shattering the feedback loop and freeing Taylor from the cycle.

She was out of her seat as soon as it rang, picking up her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. The tiny load of a few notebooks felt more like a series of large rocks, making the rush to get out the door that much more exhausting, keeping quiet as she trailed behind a kid wearing a blue sweatshirt. He might've had a name, something like Jake, or Jerry, or John; it definitely started with a 'J'. Whatever it was he served as a good decoy for Taylor to shadow while she slipped past the skinheads, taking the path down the column of chairs and putting a few more seats between her and her distracted tormentor. The Arabic teen lowered her head and breached the threshold out towards the hallway where she managed to escape among the mass exodus of students that drifted out the door. 

Sophia still sat in the room fifteen minutes after the bell rang, fuming at the notebook, having waved away the substitute who was all too eager to leave with his duty for the day complete. With a bitter sigh, the young woman lowered her pencil and looked down at the numbered list that she'd been so focused on, hoping that the effort poured into its pages was worth it. Emma could wait, she'd probably be talking about music or something with Madison anyways. As annoying as her whole 'innocent act' was, the girl was good for when anything Sophia firmly labeled 'shit I could give maybe half a fuck about' showed up in a conversation, letting Sophia sorta fade out until the topic moved onto something a bit more interesting. Thankfully, this also meant the two could keep each other busy long enough for Sophia to finish the tips for 'Toppan'.

She'd taken 'Toppan' to be more of a fan of cape-hunting than someone who'd actually take the risk and try it out for herself. It frankly bumped her up from 'Alright' to 'Kickass' in Sophia's books. Especially considering she was actually doing something to get over whatever family bullshit she was going through. A mom in prison sucked, sure, but it was also a buzz-kill whenever they talked about it. It wasn't like the stuff Emma or herself had gone through, but the streets would toughen 'Toppan' up a bit once she made the plunge. Still, the more important thing was that her friend was taking after the athlete's example! Sure the truth 'Toppan' got had been bent a bit, but who gave a fuck! Sophia had pulled someone else out of the dirt just like she did for Emma! Another badass was hopefully taking her first steps, and if Sophia could help her not take shit from anyone hell yes she was going to do it!

She eyed the other set of handwriting that was carefully printed in purple cursive, overtaking her own rushed scrawls. Why was Emma asking her for a second opinion on any of this? Not only that, why did she hand Sophia the notebook and rush off with a wink and a smile, as though the Ward hadn't known what lay within its pages? Everything from insults and pranks to the less practical: facts and personal knowledge one could only learn by having bonded with a person for years. A lotta effort wasted on Hebert.

It was frustrating, watching your best friend hand you a book that told you how little you really mattered. They had their moments, and it wasn't like she didn't enjoy some of the crazier shit they pulled on the girl, but it felt like they were beating a long dead horse. Another thing in Sophia's life that seemed to revolve around some creepy loner girl that washed ashore and straight into her life like the bloated, festering corpse of a whale. To be fair, it was right alongside the only friend that seemed to get Sophia, but when that friend is obsessed with picking the deceased whale apart piece by piece...

Figures, here she was, an athlete and a Ward, frankly the most remarkable thing about this shithole school and all the world cared about was some freak that couldn't even handle her mom being forced to moving away. Even Emma wasn't immune, only really wanting to spring traps on her ex-friend when there were a plethora of more interesting targets at this point. Combine that with how Sophia had to essentially remember every detail about the geek's day sans their pranks for Piggot's dumb reports...well familiarity had long ago stopped breeding contempt and moved forward into producing outright disdain. It'd all become just another job she hated, only clocking in to hang out with Emma. Sophia spent another five minutes finishing the list before it felt sufficient enough as to not get her online friend killed the second she took a step onto the streets. 

Taylor's hadn't traveled the streets alone in over a year, if you didn't count heading home after the prison visit. The city's prying eyes were always looking for some girl to snatch away into the night, and it was best to seek safety in numbers. Now she was alone in the broad daylight, which provided no reassurance, the sun's presence merely making it harder for her to cling to the shadows and hide. In the past she had the luxury of being able to cling to Emma or her parents. The former would've been akin to holding an open basket of snakes nowadays, and the latter were either at work or relaxing in a jail cell.

No one but her mother, father, and maybe 'Kolchak' would miss her if she disappeared. Taylor's lungs felt like they'd dropped to the bottom of her gut when she even began to think about what her mother would do should she never come home one night. What would the death toll be? Could the PRT even stop Mom in the mourning throes for her only child? She pushed the thought aside in favor of putting an artificial spring in her step, focusing on the excitement of what was to come as she tried to make it settle over the momentary tide of fear, like the thin skin that formed over hot milk. Despite the hint of terror, it felt good to abandon all caution and navigate the vile streets of Brockton.

Taking careful note of any gang tags, she made her way through the neutral ground where the bus stop lay. She'd passed some used digital cameras at the same shop she bought old books from; the store holding a diverse portfolio of secondhand junk. Worst case scenario she stuck with the less than stellar camera on her flip-phone, though it seemed to lack a certain something. A flair, a precision, a focus. Her phone's camera felt less like a tool for the job and more like something you used because it was all you had and not because it fit what you needed.

The night before, after she'd finally made her choice and gone through an hour or two of extra research, she spent an hour trying to sleep, but the excitement pounding in her chest kept her awake. From the Journalist to the Photographer, the camera began to hold a mythic quality in her mind. One that spoke of professionals who took reality and waited for the perfect moment to encapsulate one small slice of it forever. It was a romantic concept, straight out of a daydream, and one she hadn't really thought about until she'd actually considered going out cape hunting in full.

Forty minutes later she was entering the best shop in town, in her opinion anyway. 'The Calvacade' was actually several smaller shops divided up across several sections of the building. Before tonight Taylor had mostly stuck around the used book shop that sat near the far end of the building, digging through the musty old paperbacks that sat in disorganized stacks across at least a dozen different shelves and tables. She afforded herself the quick pleasure of perusing its wares before moving onto her true destination, giving the aging clerk a nod and a polite smile.

The woman that usually rang Taylor up looked to be about fifty, though the teen had never bothered to ask her name, merely exchanging a few pleasantries before going about her way. The shop itself was a good place to find something a little different than the usual cape fiction that made its way onto the public library's shelves, not that she hadn't thumbed through her share, but the more of them you read the more they all blended together, especially if it was focused on a member of the Protectorate.

Her destination for the night sat right next to the bookstore behind a thin partition that rose up and stopped an inch or two from the ceiling. Stepping into the other 'room' was a complete one-eighty. Bright white lights shined down on glass cases filled with all manner of electronics, laptops, consoles, and more importantly, cameras. Each one had a price tag placed gingerly near the object alongside smaller note cards detailing whatever specs were the object's selling points. The place had the sort of cleanliness you got from many hours of effort and little else to do but stew in your own boredom.

The clerk was a...man? Kid? He was at-least young as far as she could tell. She hesitated to say. He could've easily been mistaken for one of the students that stalked Winslow's halls, but the patches of raised lesions resting in pools of gnarled, angry looking red flesh that was contracted and wrinkled in on itself running up and across his arms said otherwise. Maybe she was just letting the scars make him older than he was? Either way, he seemed engrossed with something on his phone, only raising his head to give her a quick nod before returning to whatever it was he was doing.

She perused the camera section in its meticulous neatness, one that matched the rest of the tiny store, eventually settling her gaze on one that sat at the bottom shelf. Peering at it through the glass display case with her usual feigned disinterest, her head down slightly. It was nothing like the tiny rectangular Polaroid she remembered her dad using for what few family photos they had on display, mom had usually taken great efforts in curtailing any that didn't meet her standards, interring them to some scrapbook out of sight.

This camera was bulkier than that - it stood in the case as a black L-shape with a cylinder poking out the front. Sitting next to the lens was the L's tail that poked out parallel to it, covered in rubber padding serving to give the hand a bit of extra grip on the thing. The price tag stated sixty bucks, just a few bills less than she'd brought along. It was the cheapest one they had and it didn't look all that bad. A few scratches here and there, but still pretty good.

Sure, she could've gotten something slightly better that cost more, but this was the last of her money, and she had other supplies to get and she was certain it was already dipping way too far into her funds to get even a quarter of the things she needed to start prancing about the night. Still, it didn't matter, this one looked right and it met her budget. She quickly made her way to the inattentive clerk, losing her tongue for a bit as she looked at him put his phone away in the few seconds it took her to approach.

"Uh...hey…" She took an awkward pause before regained a grip on her voice. "Could I take a look at one of the cameras back there. Umm...bottom shelf, the Kodak." Her voice sounded low and neutral to her own ears as though the lack of people necessitated a certain pitch to leave the more or less empty store in its serene quiet.

"Sure thing, which one? Big or small?"

"Oh, I didn't know there was another one, big I guess." She gestured towards the case and quickly followed the clerk, who'd left his post with a set of keys and was taking steps towards the case.

"Alright, that section's been untouched for a while. You kinda end up memorizing what's in stock. Some of this stuff has been in that case longer than the six months I've been here. Makes them practically antiques electronics wise." The case clicked open and the clerk quickly pulled out her prize, and she gently lifted the thing out of his hand and held it in her grip, looking at the screen in the back. It was heavier than the camera dad used to have, but that was a good thing. The bit of extra weight anchored it in reality, making it more than just a fantasy or a daydream. The clerk's voice knocked her out of the momentary trance. "Feel good? Everything you want out of it? I think we have some extra carrier bags somewhere in the back if you want something to hold it in."

"No this is fine, thanks though," she murmured, looking back at the clerk with a brief nod, before returning her gaze to the camera.

"Hah, don't waste any time with small talk do you. Bring it up to the counter and I'll ring you up. Hopefully, you don't have to come back and get only third of what you paid for it." Taylor gave the joke a polite smile. It must've happened all the time - how much of the stuff in here was sold and then bought back in a dissatisfied huff? She knew for a fact that this wasn't going to be the case for her - she hoped anyway. It would hurt too much.

"I don't plan on it, not that the store isn't nice. The camera's a bit too important to just trade back…" she mumbled as she pulled out three twenties from her pocket and placed them on the counter, still slightly slick from when she'd taken a spare second to wash off any sweat that might've collected on the bills. Only the polite thing to do considering she fished them from her sneaker.

"I can respect the attitude. That a gift?"

"Sorta, to myself." Taylor paused, finding her stare going down to the clerk's gut-wrenching arms, looking for something to pay attention to other than the clerk's face, not wanting to gauge the reaction to her statement. She finally met his face as he popped back up from the counter with a box and a plastic bag. "God it sounds so selfish when I put it like that," she faltered back.

"Not more than anyone else," the clerk mused, delicately putting away her purchase while he spoke.

"I hope not." She eyeballed the camera in its protective layer of cardboard armor. Her eyes glanced around the room for a bit before gravitating back to the box.

"Trust me, you should see the shit people try to pawn here. Once had a kid try to sell off his grandpa's gold watch, turns out he'd stolen it from the guy while house-sitting. Had to call the police, his parents, it was this whole big deal."

"Fuck."

"Yeah, hell of a world, right? Not the worst thing, but it's a sign." The clerk's smile turned slightly grim, his voice sounding a bit hollow as the sentence left his lips.

"Yeah, I gotta go, but thanks for the reassurance. I guess."

"Have a good one, my service is only free the first time. After that, I charge by the minute."

Taylor smiled and nodded a goodbye before heading out, leaving the clerk to his phone and whomever else entered. She exited the store as quietly as she arrived, the camera held in a plain cardboard box stuffed as gently as she could into her backpack.

She'd done it - no turning back now. Good or bad it felt satisfying walking out of there, camera in hand. Taylor traveled through a few more thrift shops to pick up the cheapest and most concealing clothes she could find. On the off-chance she got a picture of a villain that hated close-ups, she'd rather not have them recognize her face if she had the luck to get away. Getting caught...she didn't want to think about getting caught. That was the worst case scenario. At that point, she was a lost cause no matter what she did. Still, the night awaited. Taylor returned home with several plastics bags, ready to make the leap. 

Brockton Bay hadn't always been so hostile. There was a time when the people of this city had hope. Which wasn't to say it didn't have its dangers. There had always been criminals since the law was created, backstabbers since man had garnered enough brain cells to even contemplate the concept of trust, and murder since one hungry Homo Sapiens had seen another pluck the last apple from the tree. The fact was that Brockton Bay, like most cities, had its share of scum. The difference was back in those golden years known as the '90s, the criminals had to crawl through the gutters and got their heads stomped in if they stuck them out for longer than a second. Nowadays the inmates were running the prison. Blatantly building power within their little fortresses and flaunting the way they bent laws back over their knee. Walking the streets in broad daylight without fear at times. Marking out their territory in blood like the feudal kings of old.

It was surprising how large their turfs had gotten, something Taylor learned when she started the task of trying to map out their territory. A freshly bought map of Brockton Bay sat on the floor alongside some pilfered sharpies from the kitchen junk drawer arrayed before the foot of her bed. Her aging laptop let out a loud click that she equated to the beeps of a heart rate monitor from some hospital drama. A crowd-sourced map of various gang sightings was spread out in colored dots across it, alongside stars to denote cape sightings. Of course, there was no way to know how accurate it was; the forums showed that a lotta people were willing to make up bullshit to sound cool.

One could hope the fact that most being anonymous would trim the fat, but that just introduced a new menace. Anonymity meant what you said had no consequences, it meant gangs could skew their own borders to look bigger than they were, or even make other gangs look smaller. Even worse were people just doing it for the sake of fucking with the map, man's malice unleashed for no reason other than to be a nuisance. It was a start, and from there she could buy another map and make adjustments using whatever info she could find. She swore to herself that next time she would use pins and string and move them over time rather than going through the work of drawing over a completely fresh map every time one of the gangs got lucky and claimed a new street. The less time and money she had to spend buying supplies the better; it was more time she could spend looking through the night and practicing with the camera.

She fell back on her bed, rubbing her temples and trying not to look back at her laptop. She knew half-assing this would get her killed, but it'd be so easy. She had the camera and she had an idea of where and where not to go. She'd already put so much work into this, the clothes, the research, soliciting what few bits of advice she could dredge up from PHO. 'Kolchak' was silent but it was nothing new; their activity was erratic at best. The truth was she was only really waiting to hear back from them, but then Taylor would be left there, sitting on her bed in anticipation for a few days, hoping for a reply that might just amount to nothing more than "good luck." It was prep time, but…

She opened her eyes and looked at the bundle of dark clothing on her dresser, the camera placed ever so carefully next to it, calling out to her, whispering promises of freedom. No more anxiety, no Emma, no Sophia -just her and the night. She couldn't wait; it wasn't like she would drift too deep into the dangerous parts of town. She could just take some photos of the moon. It'd been out last night. She didn't know what phase it had been, but what was a scant missing fraction when it came to getting something that looked nice? _I'll be back by one, I need the exercise anyway._ Already half convinced and giving herself that final push she needed, she quickly changed out of her pajamas into her 'costume' and snuck out the backdoor. B_ack by one, I just wanna get some practice. Won't even look for capes tonight._ Her thoughts were clear and the camera's weight was comfortably grasped between her fingers as one hovered over the button in wait.


	6. Aria 1-6

Aria 1.6

It was a clear night and the moon glowed with such an intensity that one could see it clearly, even through the smog and overbearing lights of the city. The stars, however, weren't so lucky. It didn't matter to anyone though. Maybe one celestial body was enough to draw the eye, especially for just a simple picture. She tiptoed her way to the latched fence, ducking down out of sight as she passed her parent's window and took the street perpendicular to her own that had her house cornered. She didn't take any particular path, aside from looking for a way to make up for her lack of vertical mobility. She wasn't going to find a cape, but it would be nice if she did, even if her real goal was to get somewhere tall for a clearer view of the moon.

Times like these made her wish she did have powers. That was how it was supposed to work, cape kids had an easier time getting them. Taylor figured that if she didn't have them by now she'd lost that lottery. Shame, she would've killed to have been able to fly. When she was younger she'd wanted to be like Alexandria, powers and all. She'd mentioned it only one time when she was younger while watching cartoons in the living room as mother read next to her on the couch. She just snickered back at her daughter. It was the sound she remembered being used with disdain against any number of people her mother ridiculed. One Taylor was familiar with, but never thought would ever be directed at her. It hurt. Doubly so from her own mother. What was wrong with wanting to be like one of your heroes? Taylor tried to be like her mother instead. To let it just slide by. Sadly seven-year-olds weren't exactly known for hiding their emotions.

Taylor had gotten an apology, and that was even worse. Mother always knew best, even when that wasn't exactly the case. Convincing her otherwise was a chore few could handle. She didn't know how dad pulled it off with any sort of consistency. When that smirk fell away and those eyes softened the world began to turn upside down. Hearing her admit that she wasn't infallible for once had seemed disingenuous. Still, there was something desperate in her mother's voice.  
Taylor couldn't quite understand at the time, and the memory was so foggy she could've gleaned more solid information by consulting tea leaves. It could've been regret, maybe. In the end, she'd pretended to feel better just so that mom would relax. Maybe Taylor had just overreacted. She had been a kid at the time. Now, years later Taylor could only guess that mom had found irony in her childhood dream. The amount of comfort the idea actually provided was minuscule.

She slunk through the streets, careful to not make herself look too big or stick out, checking every street corner with a little lean, hoping to not look too suspicious as she swept the next turn or alleyway for people, knuckles gripping the camera tightly. Couldn't be too careful; no one knew she was out tonight. She only wanted Luna's headshot, but the moon would be there for a while. For now, she scanned her surroundings and took a few practice shots.

The results were a few photos of run-down houses, one of a guitar shop with a particularly creepy taxidermied owl in the window serving as its mascot, and a snapshot of a stray cat being given a pat on the head. It had started following Taylor around; she didn't know its name but if it followed her home she wasn't going to slam the door in its face. For one night anyway.

Nothing but the sounds of the occasional passing car and the light hiss of the night wind disturbed the peace of the neighborhood she found herself in. The buildings had seen better days. What was once no doubt a thriving street had been strangled by years of economic downturn. Broken windows and graffiti hastily sprayed over chipped paint, while not common, entered view enough that one couldn't place much confidence in its repair anytime soon. The entire street seemed to have just given up, letting each abuse and scrape lay undisturbed. It only encouraged more vandalism as it sat apathetically, taking every blow as its inhabitants focused more on making ends meet.

She finally lucked out an hour later. A figurative man on a white stallion appeared, taking the shape of an indistinct apartment building with a fire escape negligently left down. It provided the best bird's eye view one could get in this part of town, aside from the one or two taller buildings that weren't so open with their roof's accessibility. The only light on was upfront at ground level, and this wasn't the kind of street to call the police if they saw a burglar anyways so she didn't need to worry about someone noticing her as she scaled it.

There was a distinct updraft on that roof, the air cooler, even if it carried the city's distinct scent. The rooftop bore few interesting features aside from a door that lead into the building proper. Still, her goal of going 'up' was complete. Now onto the real work. The moon greeted her in its luminescent glory. The perfect model smiled back in beams of dull light. It was beautiful, but her mind was caught up in figuring out the best settings for the photo. She vaguely recalled something about night shots and shutter speed. Advice from an article she only half remembered. For now, she'd stick with taking the pictures and work on what to improve on from there.

She held the camera to her face, neck bent slightly, balancing her sneaker on the lip of the building as she kneeled on one knee while awkwardly trying to use the other to rest her elbow. She took a few deep breaths, her performance as the incredible human tripod underway as she stared at the moon, eyes hurting slightly as she looked at its glare through the lens. The muscles in her finger pulled taut and she took the picture.

The first photo was a small white blob amongst the night sky light. Taylor zoomed in as close as her device would allow, but that didn't really remedy the symptom at all. In fact, it was even worse, the moon was still featureless and far too bright. She looked at the screen, cycling through the pair of pictures, not quite smiling, more just a look of relief. Like a few pounds had been lifted off a burden she was carrying. This is what she came for: Her plan, her drive, and her efforts. All of it had been put into getting these images. They were her pieces of the moon. Flawed, but hers. It was a start. She'd do her homework and comeback. First though, maybe just one more. Third time's the charm and she didn't want to end her moment here just yet.

She resumed her awkward shooting position, knowing full well that she couldn't possibly be doing this right. She centered dear mother luna on the screen and took a deep breath before–-

"Who the fuck are you and what in god's preacher licked asshole are you doing on my goddamn property?" A voice cried out from behind her. Taylor shot up immediately, nearly losing her grip on the camera and dropping it over the ledge, saved by a last minute, white-knuckled hold on her electronic savior. She turned around, clutching it tight to her waist, bringing to view a man that looked like he was in his mid-forties. The moon's light, once giving the blessing of a clear view to the world around her, had become a curse, revealing a balding head of long, curly black hair that must've started as a widow's peak and only gotten worse as hair began to fall away. A lit cigarette was propped in between the lips of his frown.

"Well bitch! Answer me! What's a little cunt doing trespassing on my fuckin' roof?" he yelled out.

Taylor gulped, unable to look the man in his bloodshot eyes, instead focusing on his nose which seemed to have been broken several times over. She stammered, unable to react. She was trespassing, wasn't she? That open fire escape wasn't an open invitation. "I just..." she said quietly.

He got into her face with his maw an angry snarl. The man's aging body stood over her. A relatively impressive feat considering she was at least average height for a guy in school. Intimidating to few, but for a girl far from home, it was terrifying. "Just what? You don't live here. Why the hell would you think you have the right to crawl your twiggy ass up onto my roof. You don't pay rent. Not unless you wanna start now, but I doubt you have anything to offer aside from what you give to the baseball team so that you feel like someone loves you. I'd say you ain't pretty nough' to be worth statutory anyways so don't bother!"

"Adam shut the hell up! I was sleeping you pike fucker!" A blonde woman poked her head out of the doorstep leading downstairs, dark rings around her eyes, looking at the man with a tired frown.

"Fuck off, we got a trespasser."

"Did you tell them to suck a dick and then fuck it off the ledge?"

"That's what I was doing slut, so how about you go back downstairs and ready your sloppy pocket, I might need to deal with how pissed off I am once I tell her to do just that!" The man turned his head and barked back. Had she not been so terrified Taylor might've run then and there, but she was standing at the ledge on the other side of the building across from the fire escape, her path barred by the enraged owner.

"I can leave..." she whispered meekly, stuffing her camera into her sweatshirt pocket before hugging herself, feeling her legs shake in the night air, and a cold spike shoot up her spine. One too intense for the spring chill to be responsible for it.

"You can stand your ass right there, I ain't finished with you. Sherrel, get the fuck out I got this handled." He turned back to Taylor as the woman who was evidently Sherrel ducked back into the building, closing the door with a rusty scrape and a weak thunk.

"I'm sor-"

"Oh you're sorry, well then you're free to go. Ole' Mustain's heart 'a gold has been appeased. How about you take that 'sorry' and shove it up your bleeder, be more useful than anything you're trying to do with it now."

"I..." She bit back the single tear, shivering. What could she do? She'd just wanted to not feel so trapped and take a damn picture. When she'd actually gotten around to trying...this had happened.

"Exactly, you have no goddamn respect! You thought you could stomp on up to my roof and admire the view. Well guess what, this is my view. I paid for it. Unless I invited you, and I don't remember inviting some skinny girl with no tits up here. You have parents or do they not love you enough to give a fuck about where you are? If not then I guess I'm having the cops drag you out of here."

Taylor's eyes fell to the ground. She'd just wanted a picture. How would her dad react, tired from a long day of telling dozens of men, most of whom he knew personally, that there simply was no work for them. Only to get a phone call from his daughter on an unknown late-night odyssey right as he had finally managed to glean some rest. "I do! I do...just no cops, please." The last thing she wanted was her dad being woken up by a pair of police officers knocking on the door. A phone call was a lot more innocent.

"There we go, that put the fear in you. Give me the number. We're goin' for a walk, there's a seven-eleven down the block. I don't need any more trespassers, and I count your sperm donor as one of them." Taylor recited her home phone number as the owner mumbled under his breath. Something about kids, and how they asked for free shit even after he'd already given them some.

He made her climb back down the fire escape. Maybe it was to prove a point or something she didn't know, all she could think about was how her father would react. Would he be angry? Scared? Relieved? What would happen if he told mom? Would he tell mom? She plodded forward, Mr. Mustain standing behind her to make sure she didn't rush off into the night as he shouted a number of expletives into his phone. No doubt her father was confused. She hoped the effect would bleed over into when he picked her up and would afford her an extra modicum of blurry-eyed mercy.

A stroke of red paint to breach the empty surface. Several more created a few simple shapes now that the canvas has been dirtied. A quick dip in some water washed away all traces. The artist started the process anew with a different color until the impression of something more began to emerge with each subtle motion across the canvas.

Tiny red drips became blood spatters, rushed lines morphing into ugly clouds someone could almost call faces. Most of the human-like visages seemed to have some manner of injury inflicted upon them. Soon the canvas was filled with a blurry and howling mass. Each face blended with the other in a collective rictus giving worship to a clean white pillar that might have been marble or alabaster which rose from the center. It brightened the upper half of the painting and contrasted with the dirtied masses that clung to the ground below. Thin silver veins ran across its surface in long strokes that flowed around in carefully erratic patterns. Three figures stood on top of it. Olympian silhouettes free of the spatters that besmirched and degraded the crowd, standing tall and unattached to the dregs that laid below as they sat there begging for the trio's attention. The foremost of the three was at the center. Curled lines created a vaguely feminine shape, one with long black hair, floating slightly above the surface of the column, too pristine to even touch its unmarred surface. Standing to her sides were two other figures.

Suddenly the artist was interrupted, an ignored cough from behind quickly turning into a chorus that was cut off by the artist's silence as she slowly added a few strokes of green to the sky. The teacher's efforts were nothing but white noise as Annette continued her work. Whatever pseudo-spiritual drivel or drole story she wanted to lose her breath over couldn't be that important. The fit ended and the woman that stood at her back began to speak. Running her mouth in that annoyingly low and cloudy tone, talking slowly like they were children instead of criminals. It figured, the only volunteer to oversee the program would be too stupid or naive to remember she was in prison rather than some art co-op. Surrounded by inmates rather than intellectually dead hipsters.

Annette pulled her brush away from the canvas, musing on the best method to impale the handle into the woman's eye socket. , even with her forty megatons of California chill and enough bohemian zen to poison an elephant wouldn't be able to write that off. If only the consequences weren't so steep. It would be strange getting her hands dirty after so long, but she was sure she could pull it off before the guards pried the brush from her bullet-riddled carcass. Possibly worth it too.

The teacher of the class, still in her late twenties and still speaking, inched herself into the corner of the cape's vision. Annette could never respect people that filled the air with useless sentences in the hope that no one would realize they weren't actually saying anything at all.

Ms. Carrolway was one of them to a lesser degree, machine gunning the air with her words in those quiet moments when everyone had finally found their focus and had settled into the flow of things, ruining whatever introspection the inmates were supposed to glean from the various crafts going on.

It always started with a compliment: "that looks great," "the colors blend so well!" or something else coddling you would say to a sixth grader. It wouldn't have been so bad if it ended there, but then she would lead into a comparison to some art piece her roommate Jeff made in college which lead into how Jeff was now a penguin strangler in Alaska or something equally as inane.

This time was no exception. She could picture the Californian's lips as they flapped back and forth, breaking Annette's concentration with each syllable that flew over the murderer's head, ringing into her ear as disruptive, mindless noise. It set a few tiny touches and strokes of the brush just off track enough to ruin the way the light was supposed to reflect off her pillar. Wait! Did she just highlight the edge with yellow instead of a lighter tone of grey? Why was her Songbird's hair navy-blue rather than black? Would this bitch just suffocate on her own tongue already!

"How much debt are you in? That extortionate tuition you bought into didn't do much good. Your art still looks like you let a canine have its way with the canvas. No wonder you're teaching in prison." The words left her mouth with a tiny crack that reverberated pleasantly through her tongue, punctuated by her accent to give it that extra edge. The woman took a pause. Annette didn't even spare her a glance, merely continuing to paint, a smirk crawling across her face, overtaking her previous stately expression.

"What? What does..." Carrolway croaked out in response. One which Annette promptly ignored. It was amazing, for once the Californian actually sounded concerned. It almost came as a shock to Annette that the woman was actually capable of sounding like anything other than a vapid bleeding heart that "just wanted to help these poor inmates find peace with their crimes."

"I'd tell you to not forget where you are, but I can see you've already made that mistake. Otherwise...Well, you wouldn't be so relaxed, especially considering everyone here could probably wring out your neck without half a thought. I know I could. Really, it's a testament on your part that you don't feel nervous surrounded by Brockton's worst. You didn't know though, did you? Too busy throwing glitter onto a plastic bag and calling it art," Annette said, her voice sounding like a knife dipped in poison. It was her turn to break the silence. Four weeks of listening to this woman talk when all Annette wanted was to paint in peace. All the other inmates seemed in agreement with this, why not the teacher? Frankly, she could have taught the class and gotten better results if she didn't feel it'd be a waste of her time.

Carrolway took a few steps back and whispered something. A few seconds later the thunk of heaving boots announced the guard's journey to her spot. Not even ten seconds later the ever imperial Shatterbird felt a tap on her shoulder. Her body tensed, her grip on the brush tightened as she brushed an inch too far to the left, sending a smudge of light teal streaking ever so slightly against one of the figure's head, just along the edge of one of the figure's long locks of hair, barely slipping through into the navy-blue mass as a whole. She should've grabbed that hand, slammed whomever it was attached to straight into her ruined masterpiece. Saved what little value was left by using the offender as the final tool, smearing the drying paint with a dose of pain to match the masses' worship within the piece. Instead, she merely bit her tongue and turned her head. That smirk ironed into place, going from legitimate to a forgery flawlessly. She met the trooper's eyes, staring at where they had to be through the shiny black plastic of his helmet.

"Inmate Hebert, we're going to need to take you back to your cell. You know the drill, hands in the air." She had to give him props, he didn't flinch as he spoke. Most of the troopers that made up the on-site parahuman containment team knew who she was on paper, after signing a mountain of NDA's that is. It was standard practice. Meant to allow any villains with sensitive identities to participate in activities normally available to other inmates without risking an information breach. How many villains with kill orders could bask in such a luxury? Few, but Annette deserved it now didn't she? For making the city quiver with terror for years and then offer to end it at the snap of a finger, despite having hostages. She took a quick glance at the man, 'L. Ramirez' according to the white letters stitched to the breast of his uniform.

"Of course." She turned her head, that dead smirk still on her face. The edge of her lip raised ever so slightly. The teacher meekly shuffled towards the doorway, turning her head to get Annette out of view and pacing towards the door. The lime green cardigan swiftly disappeared through the portal into safety with a few quick clacks of the women's flats.

Ramirez didn't waste any time, pulling Annette's arms behind her back as the teacher Fled quietly. Annette's smirk lowered as the muscles of her face burned, begging her to let them frown, to scowl, to express herself. Instead, she settled for the privilege of looking bored as she was cuffed, every inch of her body on edge. The steel rings wrapped around her wrist sat slightly too tight, cold metal dug into the skin mirroring the metal band around her throat, albeit far less comfortably. He wasn't taking any risks now was he? It was somewhat flattering that the on-duty troopers considered her dangerous enough that a few innocent comments warranted an escort back to her cell. They recognized her reputation, acknowledged she was a force to be reckoned with. Paying silent homage without alerting the other inmates to her alter ego.

Ramirez guided her to the door and waited until the radio on his chest rang out. The man quickly responded with a series of numbers and jargon she ignored in favor of looking over the other prisoner's paintings with a judgemental eye until she was dragged outside and back to her cell. On the way, they passed a new inmate stewing in his own discontent within the confines of his cell. Short cut blond hair sat atop a head wearing a domino mask, attached to an athletic body. He scowled at her, not the usual threatening expression meant to assert dominance. This was genuine hatred and disgust, pure and simple.

She didn't care to understand what he was trying to achieve with the gesture. They were all behind bars and she spent most of her time alone in her cell anyways. He wasn't going to get to act on it anytime soon. She'd had worse directed at her while walking home. Gestures thrown at her she paid back a thousand fold when the fancy struck her. The Empire was embedded too deep in town for it to be anything but a daily experience.

Annette was back in her cell a few minutes later, sitting back and pouring over some science fiction novel Songbird had sent over. Not the inmate's usual fare, but it was interesting for once. Focused more on politics and culture rather than some mindless romp. She actually looked forward to talking to her daughter about it.

Despite a firm stance on what qualified as good literature her current selection mostly consisted of books with more violence than themes. Still, never too late to look into the classics. She might even try to see if they could read _Don Quixote _together again next visit and finish it this time, rather than give up a fifth of the way through.

Hebert household, a year and a half ago.

He'd just picked up Taylor from school and they were settling into the normal afternoon routine when the phone rang. Annette had been running late, but that was normal when she tried to peddle some of her noncommission work to potential buyers. Danny answered to hear his wife's voice, void of her usual confident tone. Instead, she seemed... somber. Not quite sad, but the connotation was there. She was to the point when she started talking, no games, none of her usual jabs at the numerous people that seemed to have annoyed her before getting into the thick of her day.

"Daniel, I'm in PRT custody," she said, sounding like she was reading a script with just the barest hint of sadness. She paused before taking a deep breath, like a new doctor about to tell someone they had cancer for the first time ever in their career. His wife didn't even give him time to respond before she continued. Not that he could. If he'd tried to speak he was certain all he could've produced was a croak or a cough. How else could he have responded? Annette? In custody?

"I can't even begin to apologize for everything I've been withholding. I'd rather explain in person, but...if you need me to they've given me five minutes. I can try to make the most of them."

"I...what!?" he whispered into the phone, trying not to alert his daughter, who was not even fifteen feet away in the living room.

"Daniel I know it's a lot to take in and I haven't even started, but I think you should at least hear what I have to say." He crept around the corner to check on Taylor, making sure she wasn't listening in.

"Annette! I...are you in trouble I mean...what did you do? How did you even get arrested? I just wanna know what's going on," he said nervously, voice still hushed.

"It's a long story, one I'm sure you'd rather hear now. I'd hoped to be able to do this eye to eye. Just know before I say any of this...both you and Taylor are the most important people in my life."

"I know, but what about does that have to do with you being custody?"

"Daniel, I'm a cape. That's frankly not the most important part, Prince. I'm Shatterbird." She didn't even flinch. Some would imagine such a reveal would come fast. Like tearing off a band-aid. Not with her. It was methodic. Almost as though she'd been preparing for this. Maybe she had. He almost dropped the phone before propping it back against his ear. The smooth plastic felt especially slippery, and his hand began to feel hot and sweaty.

She was that psychopath he'd seen on TV? The person that had butchered hundreds, seemingly on a whim? No! How? She might've been a bit of a misanthrope, but wholesale slaughter? Some of the guys had stories when they'd been caught in one of her attacks. Hell, he'd helped them file the health insurance paperwork a few times. Annette wasn't capable of that. Was she?

His mouth was dry as he spoke, his wife's voice bidding him to respond. Eventually, he gathered his wits. "I….I think you're right, we need to talk about this in person…."

She said something to a person off the phone before a male voice came on and fed him an address as well as a time. Six PM, the PRT headquarters. He gave Kurt a call and managed to convince him to babysit. An hour and a half later he was out the door. On his journey, he ran a stop sign and rushed down the road at twenty over the speed limit. In light of the crimes his wife claimed to have committed it hadn't seemed that important.

Present day.

He was in a rut, his wife was in prison and their daughter was growing more distant from him with each passing day. He couldn't even help his men, and they were indeed his men. He'd worked on his father's boat a good share of his summers, enough to at least have an idea of what they went through. The labor they had to go through each day. He'd drank with them, been to their weddings and vice versa. Yet, Danny couldn't even dredge up the scantest bit of political support in the name of their interests.

The presentation had been a sham as always, the Mayor repeating the usual song and dance just as Danny did his. In the end there just wasn't enough funds to bring back the ferry, like always. He'd wanted to kick, to scream, to drag Roy Christner all the way to the Association and let him see what was going on outside the man's ivory tower. That bubbling, tar-like rage welled up and seeped out of his nose and eyes like dark tears as his heart began to crack in exhaustion while he tried to play at being polite. He'd needed to sit in his car for thirty minutes after the meeting in order for it fizzle out. Danny hadn't gotten that angry in years. This was nothing like when he'd been a hot-tempered youth. This was the kind of slow-burning anger that came from years of pressure. If he wasn't so tired he might've actually been able to do something with it. It was only the understanding that an outburst would do little for the cause that kept him from storming back in there.

He laid there in his bed. The empty space next to him felt cold and alien as he festered. Not that different from the woman he loved after her bloody past came to light. There were signs. Frankly, he should've realized something was off when she started coming home that late. The way her schedule seemed to take sudden unseen turns. Any normal man would've at least thought it was an affair or something. Instead, he'd let it slip. Back when they first met he'd thought they were fellow backpackers traveling across the trails of Europe. Well, they were, but he was in it for the excitement of a trip through a foreign land. Annette evidently was there to lay low until she could strike again. Was he just willfully blind? And why him of all people?

The phone rang. How did he know it wasn't good news? It seemed like that annoying chirp was a perpetual bearer of misfortune ever since his wife had made the big reveal. He turned to his side and pulled it to his ear to answer.

"Hello."

"Are you the motherfucker called Danny Hebert!"

Danny had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing him out right back. Who was this guy and why did he know his name? "Yes?"

"Good, well guess what? You're pretty crappy at watching your kid. Found her trespassing on my fucking property shit-flinger. Get the fuck over here and take her off my hands. Might have to charge too for goddamn babysitting her."

Several swear-filled minutes later he knew where to go. Danny didn't even change out of his pajamas before he was out the door and on his way to some convenience store in a neighborhood he'd never seen. He couldn't help his men, his wife was a psycho, and it was starting to all be too much, but his daughter needed him. He didn't know why she was running around in the middle of the night, but he could save the questions and the scolding for when he knew she was alright.

*******


	7. Aria 1-7

***Aria 1.7***

Taylor sat in the passenger seat of the car, her expression resembling that of someone standing over a dead body, bloody knife in hand. Mr. Mustain and her dad were still in the convenience store discussing god knows what. Well, the roof's owner was talking at least. All she could see through the window was her hapless father looking increasingly confused as the landlord, or whatever he was, let loose.

She felt terrible. She'd never wanted to do this to him: forcing him up so early in the morning and dealing with all of this. There was work waiting for him when the sun finally rose to the west and it wasn't like she could explain her actions in a way that wouldn't risk delving into anything she didn't want to talk about. What could she say? That she was practicing to go out late at night to try and get pictures of people that could shoot lasers from their eyes? What would placate him without making the overworked man feel like he was a bad parent? She needed a silver bullet. One sentence that could let them both feel some sort of ease. Like the issue was resolved.

Taylor had already taken the first steps towards deceiving her dad, the same way mother had a long time ago. How was hiding her reasons any different than simply not mentioning Emma or her abuses though? She didn't like the idea, she never liked it. It was for both their own good, though! If he knew, he'd be angry he couldn't do anything about it. There was no way it wouldn't end with Dad beat himself up. Sadly, the knot in her stomach refused to uncurl in the face of this logic. Why couldn't she have taken from her mother and had a weaker conscience?

She listed the pros and cons of telling the whole story in her head right up until her father stepped out of the store. Mr. Mustain never left, merely shuffling off into some unseen corner out of view of the window before reappearing with three huge bottles holding a golden liquid within each and bearing a blue 45 on their labels.

She sank back into her seat, arms curled around the camera in her sweatshirt protectively as though it were a child when her father stepped inside the vehicle, leaning back in his seat. No doubt still trying to parse through all the strange and wondrous new uses of the words 'bitch',' fuck' and 'shittwister' that had just been demonstrated to him.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose before pulling his hand away, sparing a few seconds to blink away any confusion before sighing. "I'm friends with sailors that have cleaner mouths," he muttered before looking over at her, worry carved across the creases of his forehead.

"Are you alright? Did he do anything to you? Did he hurt you? When I got the call- When he said your name- Why were you on his roof at one in the morning?" he asked, speaking fast and swelling in concern.

She silently mulled the words over for a few seconds, looking out the windshield as they passed rundown buildings and several cars with various combinations of parts that were bent, missing, or held in place by duct tape.

"I just went for a walk. Needed some fresh air." It wasn't a complete lie, more a half-truth. Taylor thought she sounded calm — she hoped she sounded calm. It was all to put him at ease; any misstep was just gonna put the pressure on him. Make him be hard on himself when there was nothing he could do about what was going on.

"In the middle of the night?"

"Yeah."

"Taylor…"

"I couldn't get to sleep. Figured it would help me organize my thoughts."

"I'm not stupid. If you were just down the block I might be able to believe that. Christ, it took me an hour to find where he wanted me to pick you up."

"That's what I was doing. I just wasn't paying attention to where I was going. Got stuck in my own head. I wasn't going to sleep until I worked them out or exhausted myself," Taylor muttered back, trying to hold back her irritation. Restraining it enough that it wouldn't leak into her voice while she stared at the mascot on the breast of his shirt.

The Brockton University Starving Coyote looked back at her with its large, hungry cartoon eyes; an alternative to her father's exhausted ones peeking at her through his glasses.

"Again, I'm not stupid. Is it a boy? Some new friends of yours? Are you a..." his voice petered out before he finished the sentence. He didn't need to. Who else wandered around Brockton in the middle of the night besides capes, criminals, and victims?

"No. Like I said, just needed some air, figured I could take some pictures while I was out too. Thought it might help me get my mind off things."

"Oh? So that camera has you running around at night? I'm liable to take it off your hands then." He didn't sound too serious, but she still held her Kodak a bit tighter. "Taylor, I love you. I just don't want to see you get hurt. This town is dangerous, especially at night."

"I know. You never let me forget," she muttered back. The girl knew first hand; it's why she was careful. Practically losing herself to paranoia everyday. Who was he to question how dangerous she thought this town was?

"I'm sorry, it's just that I worry. If anything happened to you...I don't know what either I or your mother would do." Taylor had a few possibilities in mind, few of which she liked.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I'm fine though."

"This time. What if he did more than just swear at you? What if he was part of a gang or just didn't feel like going through that whole process of calling me? He might've hurt you! "

"But he didn't."

"That's not the point! Something really bad could've happened. You could've been abducted, or killed, or beaten, or something even worse!"

"Dad…"

He pulled the car to the curb, too flustered to drive, his grip on the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were pale. He took another deep breath, air leaving his mouth in a defeated sigh. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the tip of the steering wheel. Neither of them spoke until her father's voice broke the silence. He didn't shout. He didn't get angry. He just seemed...weary.

"I can't lose anyone else. Your mom is in prison and we see her, but it's not the same. Things, they haven't been the same. I wake up every day wishing she was home. Without her...right now you're all I have Taylor."

The girl leaned over onto his shoulder, hugging him in the hopes the gesture would leech away some of the burden weighing him down. "I didn't mean to. I was also thinking about mom, and her not being around. I wasn't paying attention."

"It's fine," he said softly. Her dad rose from the wheel, Taylor pulling away and looking back at the window. It was as if even looking at each other would be the catalyst for a new eruption of emotions.

"I didn't mean to get so upset...please. Don't scare me like that again." He took the chance to wrap her in an embrace of his own.

"I promise I won't," Taylor said, her voice creaky. There was a spirit to his request. Don't risk her life, don't sneak out like this. She was going to have to settle for following the letter. She didn't talk the whole way home, her eyes shut tight as she tried her best to look like she was falling asleep, It gleaned her a few minutes with her own thoughts.

When the engine finally died the illusion was on the edge of becoming reality. Her eyes took much more effort than they should've to open, an extra five minutes and she would've been singing a sonata of snores alongside the radio.

She finally opened her eyes to give him a quick, eyes half open glance when she caught ear of the tiny metallic click of his seatbelt coming unclipped. "I'm sorry about getting so bent out of shape. I need you to understand, you're the most important thing on my mind, and I guarantee your mother's mind. I...no, we...just want to keep you safe and sound. Even the idea that you could be in trouble... it sets off sirens in my head." He gave her a weak, not quite smile as he took a step out of the sedan.

"Still, it's late, tater-tot, and we both need to get to bed," he said quietly, looking as tired as she felt, albeit relieved.

She followed suit, opening her own door, perturbed more by the nickname than losing the seat's headrest, which was acting as a cushion to her descent into sleep. At least emotions weren't running as high anymore. "It's fine. Though please don't use that one, I haven't liked that nickname since I was nine."

"I know. I get two, well, one more use out of it for waking me up so late. I'm suspending the official veto. I was a little disappointed when you wanted me to stop calling you that. Though it made your Mom happy."

"I think it was the best day of her life when she finally heard I didn't like it anymore. I also remember you tried bribing me with a later bed-time to be able to use it again." Even back then she still hadn't thought about taking him up on that offer, as tempting as a chance to experience the world of late night Ten PM television was, when you were in elementary school and had the choice between being called a bird or a fried potato when your parents dropped you off there was no contest.

"That would've worked too if your mom didn't threaten to use the living room to showcase her art Monday nights. I would've had to watch football at Kurt and Lacey's."

"That's a bad thing?"

"He's from New York remember? We wouldn't go five minutes without a fistfight." He father chuckled.

"I thought you guys went to middle school together?"

"Kurt moved here a bit into Eighth grade. By that point he'd followed the wrong team for so long it was a lost cause. That was a while ago though."

"Ah."

"Yeah, you shoulda seen the arguments we got into when sports were involved."Her father punctuated the sentence with a yawn, holding a hand to his mouth as the contagious sound spurred one from Taylor. Was she really this tired? She'd pulled all-nighters before. Usually when she lost herself on PHO or was making a last ditch effort to save her homework after Emma's cronies had wrecked her the original copy. She shoulda been used to it by now.

"Time for bed. I swear I'm gonna just fall over and snooze out here on the pavement if we keep going. Just try to get some sleep and unlearn every curse you learned from Mas...muh...mustard? I don't think I caught his last name."

"Mr. Mustain."

"Right."

They stumbled into the house. Anybody on the street that was experiencing a bout of insomnia could've taken a look out the window and watched their neighbor and his daughter go inside. They'd have been left with the momentary question of why Daniel was dressed in his pajamas and returning home with his daughter at such an ungodly hour before shaking away their idle curiosity as just that, an idle curiosity.

Taylor didn't remember falling flat onto her sheets. She didn't remember dragging her laptop into bed and she especially didn't remember sending Kolchak the pics she took last night either. Couldn't delete them: they'd already been messaged over to her friend, who'd no doubt be so impressed, some glowing dots and a stray, astounding.

Exhausted Taylor had apparently thought so. Enough to jump the gun without being nice enough to leave a note.

_Dear me,_

_Made a fool of ourselves to our one and only friend._

_Signed,_

_The person with your best interests at heart, Taylor A. Hebert_

_P.S. you're welcome._

It felt arrogant even seeing that she'd sent them out; like she was showing off a microwave dinner to a food critic and claiming to be ready for Iron Chef. First impressions were a bitch and she'd just made a pretty shitty one.

Taylor could at least give herself some commendation though. If she did all that half asleep then imagine what she could pull if she put the effort forth with some semblance of cogency. Maybe she might actually have a picture worth showing people one day. She spent forty minutes laying in bed, every now and again opening her eyes to make a few idle clicks, completely forgetting whatever it was she was browsing through as soon as she let her eyes rest.

"Taylor, I made us some breakfast!" her dad hollered from downstairs.

Getting something to eat carried the prerequisite that she get outta bed. Her warm, comfortable bed. Truly, having to choose between the two was suffering on par with a Greek tragedy. It wasn't until her father called a second time that she finally managed to call forth some font of energy hidden deep within herself. The blanket resisted being dragged away from her body, tired limbs pulling with what was certainly no lack of lethargy. Still clad in the clothes that shielded her on last night's expedition, she walked downstairs. The call of breakfast was too loud to let something as simple as a morning routine get in her way.

The scent of turkey sausage and eggs, a staple in their household, hit her nose, stirring up old memories that died when she spotted only her dad sitting at the table with his back to the fridge, idly munching on a slice of toast.

"Hey," she said, her stomach empty and focus divided. The sausages and toast sat on a plate in the center of the kitchen table alongside a few fried eggs, taunting Taylor while her stomach begged. It never really occurred to her just how hungry she was until she'd finally gotten a good look at the small feast laid out before her.

"Hey." He took a few more bites. "How'd you sleep?"

"Alright."

"Good to see. You hungry?" She gave him a gentle nod before meekly filling her plate and taking the seat across from him, trying to keep her attention zeroed in on the morsels in front of her. She cut a sausage in half with her fork and gave it a quick nibble, a hint of maple finishing the savory delight, coating her tongue in grease as she swallowed. Home cooking to its core. Something she couldn't _not_ appreciate. It had been a while since they'd eaten breakfast together. Her father often left early to work, trying to make a difference despite how little it seemed anyone else cared.

"More where that came from."

She obliged him, quickly demolishing the meal while her father picked at his own plate. Every now and again he'd let out an 'um' or 'hm', seemingly unsure of what to say. She'd pause in turn, lifting her glasses to meet his, only for him to just retreat back to his breakfast. It wasn't until she had a few bits of egg and a half-slice of toast left that the conversation picked back up. Sadly, there was nothing lighthearted about the words that left her father's mouth.

"We need to talk about what Happened," he said, wearing the same face he did in last night: Eyebrows raised slightly and mouth dipped into a sad frown. She hated looking at it, hated the way it put her on the verge of choking from the guilt it managed to elicit. Her mind flailed in slow motion, trying to find any combination of words she could spit out of her mouth, but taking far longer than she would've liked.

"I...I thought that's what we did? When we were in the car."

" I wasn't in a good state of mind. We need to have an actual conversation about this. Not just me losing my wits."

"It was fine dad, I'm not-"

"Taylor, please...Listen. You've been doing your own thing for a while now. I've been okay with it and have even been giving you your space. This is because I know you're still reeling from mom, and high school, and any number of other things. That doesn't mean you can just wander around the city at night. Yesterday...It could've ended badly. It didn't. But I don't want you risking your life like that again. No more late night strolls okay. "

"No more late night strolls," she repeated sheepishly. It hurt twice as much as last night. Telling another lie. Now every time she snuck out that door, she'd hear him whispering weakly at the back of her mind. Asking her not to do it. To stay home, where it was safe. She very much agreed, but this place would also become her tomb if she didn't break away, not just from here, but from everything.

"Not just that. I hate being a hardass. Especially after all this, but I need to drive the point home. Taylor, you're grounded." The sentence resonated in her head, alongside it was that universal word following it up. _Fuck!_


	8. Aria 1-8

***Aria 1.8***  
The mashed potatoes were cold, and the sliced carrots weren't doing much better, being lukewarm orange discs. The main course was a cutlet of chicken, free of any sort of seasoning or garnish. Sure, there were a few other pieces of food on Annette's plate, like some jello dubiously described as being cherry flavored, and a dinner roll. However, none of them really managed to drag out the feelings of loss and disgust more than the dried out piece of meat sitting on her plate. Charred worse than a ruined steak, apparently the cook in charge thought well-done applied to Poultry too. On the bright side, she wasn't going to be getting salmonella anytime soon.

It really drove home how much she missed real food. The fact that her Husband could at least cook more or less sealed the deal when she'd weighed the pros and cons. Mind you it was American fare, nothing like the food she grew up with, but anything was better than the detritus looking back at her at the moment.

It was one of the small things she appreciated about Danny, alongside the fact he treated her the way she deserved. – Well, that and his temper which seemed to bubble just under the surface, one with which she could empathize and as some might find strange, even liked. It was a shame really. Her poor prince, so focused on building and uplifting, rarely allowing himself the pleasure of tearing something down, watching those around you gasp in astonishment at your boldness.

Annette prodded her meal with a plastic fork. Her thoughts provided her an apt enough distraction before she finally swallowed her pride and stuck a piece in her mouth. It tasted exactly as it looked like, plain and slightly off. Not like the meat had gone bad, more ...indescribable. One small thing. An out of place aftertaste that left the one eating it worried. Unable to name why they couldn't enjoy it. Just that deep sense that something was amiss with the food dragging itself across your tastebuds.

She finished the meal as quickly as she could, like she usually did, trying to get through the painful exercise in learning how to appreciate the finer things in life and shoved the tray aside. Nothing left to do now but try to survive the next twenty minutes of waiting. Every day the shrink would show up after lunch and begin to prod her mind once more, hoping for a breakthrough that would let him take her apart and put her back together as a 'functional member of society'. Even if he succeeded, Annette would still need to serve out a life sentence in her luxurious cell. Just without the added ego boost of the mass' fear. Exaltation came in many forms, why not bask in it?

She sat on her bed, back to the wall, contemplating how this session was gonna go. Would he break into her relationship with her family? How she met Danny? How she felt every time she ended a life– or if she felt anything at all?

The gate to the wing slammed open with the familiar thunks marching down the concrete floor following it up. She closed her eyes and counted the seconds until she'd have to feign fighting the demons forced upon her. Yesterday it'd taken fifteen, the day before seventeen. The doctor must've been in a rush; the footsteps ended after eleven seconds today. The voice that addressed her would've been an unpleasant surprise, had it not been for the fact that it broke the routine.

"Shatterbird, hands to the wall, back to the door. Now!" The voice delivered the orders with an unnatural fervor, the woman's domineering tone almost throwing Annette for a loop. The warden was just as used to getting what she wanted as the prisoner was. Were it not for their relative positions of power she would've been tempted to shout back.

Annette obeyed, barely opening her eyes to navigate the small room. Gritted teeth once more held back all signs of resistance. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, forcing it to remain motionless, letting any complaints wither and die in her mind. She could at least appreciate the fact that the woman wasn't a pushover. With a screech, the cell door slid open and a few seconds later wandering hands began to search the prisoner as she held back a few gags.

"She's clean and the collar's clear," the guard said curtly.

The warden spat out the words "Alright, Shatterbird you can turn around." like they tasted bad, as though saying the prisoner's cape name made her want to gargle some mouthwash before continuing. Annette obeyed, turning about-face until she was looking the mountain of a woman in the eye.

She was sitting down in a folding chair that the cape had been too busy trying not to lash out or struggle to even hear anyone set up. A dirty blonde, she normally stood three inches taller over Annette's brow. Her silhouette reminded Annette of a bear: bulky, powerful, and with a demeanor to match. The warden was flanked by one of the wing's on duty troopers, weapon hanging around his shoulder by a strap and held one-handed by its pistol grip.

"Where's The Doctor?" Annette asked nonchalantly, examining a little dirt that was beneath her fingernails, wishing that she hadn't eaten lunch and soiled her fork, the only implement she had access to that could have removed the offending speck. Pencils left graphite marks beneath the nail. It helped to act disinterested; that was the key. To make Baker feel small, beneath her interest. It never failed to bother people so used to their title giving them authority they had no right to have. Loretta, while not quite an exception, at least didn't act like a child given free reign of a candy store; she had a respect for the power she wielded. It made these sorts of talks much less annoying.

"Your session has been postponed, he'll see you an hour before dinner."

"Well, then to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You know why I'm here."

"Hardly."

"She quit."

"Who?"

"You know who, the woman you terrorized yesterday."

"Ah, so our dearest art teacher was ill-equipped to deal with a critique of her work? If that's all it took you should be thanking me. When some token adversity is enough to drive your employees to other pastures you might need to reconsider who you hire."

"You threatened to choke her to death."

"I reminded her of where she worked. A prison, filled with the worst gangsters and murderers Brockton has to offer. I was giving her a sense of perspective, not that haze she seemed to have clouding her senses."

"Well, you should be proud of yourself then. Her eyes are wide open and she doesn't feel safe here anymore. That means two hundred prisoners, distributed over ten, hour and a half long segments, twenty prisoners each. Now, all that time and skill can be put to work making shanks rather than Paper mache. It's also the third time we've had to escort you back to your cell in the past two months."

"Is that any different than everyone else in this building wearing a jumpsuit? I made a few comments. How Carrolway chose to interpret them isn't my problem. "

"The PRT seems to agree with me when I say that isn't the case," Loretta replied, voice stern, a hint of smugness coming off from the way she emphasized the three letter initialism.

Annette looked back at the Warden's expression as it stood stolid and grim, letting the sentence's possible implications hold their own weight. The meaning crawled across the lobes of her brain as she tried to not think of the worst case scenario. They wouldn't! She'd given them one of the greatest PR victories the Protectorate could ask for! It would be insane for them to throw it all away!

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know who's technically in charge of the prisoners in this wing?"

"That's irrelevant to the conversation. I'm asking you again. What do you mean the–" Annette tried to repeat the question only to be shut down by her opponent.

"It's very relevant, inmate. Normally I have the autonomy to make choices and dispense punishments as needed regarding the incarcerated parahumans in my wing. With your case, however, the PRT wants any major decisions signed off by a pre-approved advisor. Especially decisions affecting the 'Arrangements' put in place. You could say I need to have mom or dad sign off the permission slip before I do anything that might make little old Shatterbird mad."

Annette blinked quickly and she took a deep breath through her nose as boredom bloomed into discontent, lips curling into a scowl. She could hear the blood pumping inside her ears as her heart went into overdrive. Gasoline flowed through her veins, ready to be ignited into a vast conflagration! What did they do! What did this Ogre do!

She could do little else but demand an answer. Ms. Baker's need for suspense might've been the kind of games Annette used to play with her prey, but she wasn't going to be on the receiving end any longer than she could help it.

"Well then, are you going to make me angry?" It was her turn to spit out words, each syllable feeling like phlegm that needed to hacked up from her throat as they vibrated up her vocal cords.

"I don't know. I'm only making a few choices. How you choose to react to them isn't my problem." She said with no small part of pleasure. How cute, parroting her words like she was making some sort of point.

"Your visitation privileges are suspended until further notice, and your minutes on the phone cut to a third of the normal amount. Unlike the woman you scared shitless, you can't exactly quit being a prisoner because of it."

The trooper sprung into action, raising his weapon ever so slightly, stopping Annette in a step forward she hadn't even realized she was about to make. She took another breath, a deeper one this time and fought to smooth out her emotions, putting her portrait-like mask back on to avoid getting dragged home in a body bag. If the warden had thought she was going to be attacked she didn't show it. The only indication she'd even noticed the outburst was when the blonde locked her fingers together over her lap and leaned back in the chair, adopting a slightly less formal posture.

"You can't do that. I made a bargain and fulfilled my end of it!" she retorted bitterly as she stepped back and returned her hands to her sides. Besides, Annette wasn't in any position to deal a killing blow; best to wait. Better opportunities to even the score would open up later on if the desire to wrap her fingers around the warden's neck until her face was a pleasant shade of purple still howled in its cage at the back of Annette's psyche.

The warden's gaze was unmoving. Piercing eyes that could send any low ranking ABB member or freshly shaved skinhead scurrying for cover were matched by a stare of equal intensity. It was as though they'd created a game out of who could intimidate who first. Neither of them budged until Ms. Baker ended the contest, saying her piece matter of factly.

"You're also pressing the limits of that deal. You agreed to plead guilty and not make waves in exchange for extended visitation and phone call duration, and of course, to avoid The Birdcage. The first is a privilege given to inmates that obey the rules, just like that art class you ruined. It's all under my purview so long as your case monitor agrees it's necessary. Frankly, we should've taken action sooner. These measures will continue until the end of the month, any more incidents and I'll extend the punishment to last six months. Anything after that means I'll be having a talk with the PRT about finding another facility better equipped to handle you. I don't need to give you a hint about where I have in mind."

_You're just loving this aren't you. I play along! So what if one person can't handle a simple opinion! I gave you everything you wanted! _Annette howled in her mind. She had the sword of Damocles hanging over her head, and the warden had a pair of scissors at the ready to snip the thread and make the blade plummet down onto her neck.

She couldn't do this! Annette wouldn't **let** her do this! Cut her off from** her** family! **Her** child! **her** husband! Not without fighting back! But what could she do that wouldn't also ruin everything she worked for?

She cocked her head, holding an icy expression as she ran various scenarios in her head. Could she move fast enough to grab the handheld linked to the collar? She doubted it, and even then there was no way to tell if there was some sorta finger scanner on the damnable thing, or even just a simple password she wasn't privy to. Maybe there was a traditional key she could steal from an unaware guard, in case the handheld was broken or...hell if she knew. Uncharged? There were too many unknowns to make a move. She wasn't even sure yet if it was worth it.

The warden raised an eyebrow, whether in surprise, amusement, or simple acknowledgment of the request Annette didn't really care. She needed to do something more. She couldn't just let them go against their word. Penance needed to be paid for this transgression.

"I want to talk to my case monitor," she growled through gritted teeth and her voice filled with vitriol.

"You have his number. "

"Well, are we done then?"

"I suppose. Though I would think you would rather use the extra fifteen minutes on the phone I've set aside to inform your loved ones," she said as she produced a flip phone from her pocket and flung it onto Annette's cot.

It was Annette's turn to cock her eyebrow. "What is this?" she said through gritted teeth, her lips curled into a frown. The mask dropped to the floor. The sheer insolence! Implying she didn't care, insulting her with the pretense that the jailbird didn't care while claiming to have the moral high ground!

"Call it courtesy. Be thankful I'm showing it. I think they'd rather have you explain the situation than one of our secretaries. Still your choice. You can file your complaint, inform your loved ones, or even give Carrolway an apology for all I care. The guard outside will retrieve the phone when you're done. He'll keep track and inform you when your time is up," the warden answered with a shrug and rose from her seat and folded it up before she left the room. The trooper that served as her bodyguard trailed behind her. He tugged the cell shut with a heavy metal clank that served to remind everyone within earshot it was securely locked as he took position outside.

Annette stared at the phone, fingers tight around its plastic shell as she tried to plot the best course of action. Slowly her finger began to dance across the keypad. Her heart became heavy as the dial tone began to sound over the line and she pressed the device to her ear. There were needs, and then there were wants. She didn't really know which category this one fit into.

The warden was playing games, she knew this much. Why else corner her in her cell like this and inform her personally? The woman would pay. Shatterbird always got her pound of flesh. Annette waited, bathed in anticipation, hoping someone would pick up the phone on the other end. The ringer let out another digital whine for the fifth time.


End file.
